


The Angels

by Edoe



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Major Original Character(s), Multi, Original Character(s), Post-Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-12-27 04:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoe/pseuds/Edoe
Summary: Ever wondered what happened to Amy Pond and Rory Williams after they arrived in America?The Angels is a Doctor Who fan novel, detailing the final year in Amy Pond’s life. It details the life she and Rory built for themselves in America, and tells the story of their family – of the trials and tribulations they experienced, over the course of that year...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> The Angels is a big project - it has been the main thing I've been working on throughout this year. I've been writing fanfiction for some time now - this time, I decided to write a fan novel, not just a long, serialised fic. It has, as a result, been quite an adventure. It has defined my life for some time now, especially over the summer - so, I can't wait for everyone to read it!
> 
> The story takes place several years after the end of The Angels Take Manhattan, and follows Amy Pond during the last years of her life. It is, in this respect, a love letter to her character, and to her era on the show. However, it also tries to break new ground, focusing on many original characters and stories as well, as I attempt to delve into the life she and Rory lived in America during the 20th century.
> 
> As it was written in the form of a book, it can be found as a whole on my website:
> 
> https://theawkwardtroubadour.wordpress.com/the-angels/
> 
> However, I will be serialising it weekly on this AO3 account, so if you'd rather read it at a slower pace, keep checking back here. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy the fic - that you think it does Amy justice, and that you enjoy the original characters too! It is a story that means a lot to me - and I hope it means a lot to you too.

_despite knowing _

_they won’t be here for long_

_they still choose to live_

_their brightest lives_

sunflowers, Rupi Kaur

**31st DECEMBER 1991**

Margot had made it through Christmas.

On tenterhooks the whole time, of course. Even though the baby wasn’t due for another few weeks, she knew it would be early. Some would say that was a sort of ‘mother’s instinct’ kicking in for the first time, though Margot was not convinced. She knew her body – it was as simple as that. She’d come to know her baby too. Restless, raring to go. Agitated. Grumpy. Excited.

A bit like she’d been, when she was a kid. Her own mother laughed when she’d said that. “You’re still like that”, Cynthia had said.

The year was drawing to a close – a long year. A chaotic one, for the family. All years were chaotic in their own way – but this one had felt especially so. But, as the days rolled on and the new year came closer, it seemed like the birth was not going to be following in the long line of events dominating 1991. Instead, it would christen 1992 – a year that they would all say, in unison, couldn’t be more insane – before proving everyone wrong. So, believing that the baby would stay firmly inside of her until January marched in, Margot allowed herself to relax in that New Years’ Eve.

Until she felt the twinge.

For a moment, she stared at her abdomen, as if in some sort of Western standoff – waiting for the next move.

There was nothing. Everything felt as it had done before.

Braxton… whatever her mother kept calling it.

So, she returned to her grandmother’s armchair. They had been staying with her for the Christmas season and, after a bout of sickness rendered Margot unable to fly, they remained in New York state. Margot certainly didn’t begrudge it – any excuse to spend time with her grandmother.

She picked up her bowl of crisps. Flicked up the volume on the television, letting the sounds wash over her. Trying to forget everything (again). The stress was not good for the baby. As everyone kept telling her – it seemed everyone was an expert, after all.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t forget it. The twinge had brought everything into perspective, and up she was again, back on the tenterhooks. The birth was inevitable, drawing ever closer. For all that the twitch might only be a preamble – not even for the main event – it was still a chilling foreshadowing of what was to come. Margot was only 17, and to be on the verge of motherhood was terrifying. To be bestowed with such responsibility. A human life. Knowing that such a challenge would soon be before her put her on edge.

It was also difficult to forget because she kept feeling that same twinge. Every 10 minutes or so.

Hours passed. Margot ate lunch. She returned to her position in front of the television. Chatted to her mother and grandmother. Watched more television. Ate dinner. Sat in the garden to get some fresh air, before returning indoors – in her current condition, she did not get out much. The sheer effort of carrying another human inside her was draining.

This, like the days succeeding the 25th December, was her usual routine. It was agonisingly boring, but as her walk had been transformed into a waddle and her mobility therefore restricted, her life had been changed to that of a life of confinement and monotony.

However, this time, the feeling did not go away. The stabbing feeling kept going. And going.

And worryingly, getting more regular.

Margot didn’t say anything to anyone all day. Her mother was worried enough as it was, and she didn’t want to cause any great concern for no reason. So, when Cynthia left to go and buy groceries, Margot waved her off, hoping that she would find some respite. After all – there was no need to cause undue stress for anyone. Let alone because of the fact it would also make _her _worry even more.

Unfortunately, worrying became unavoidable at seven o’clock that evening.

Margot was pouring herself some frosted flakes – she had developed a love of cereal over the course of the pregnancy. Also, the tiger on the box was cute. As she leaned over the counter to pour on the milk – it happened.

Dribbling down her leg, some sort of liquid pooling on the floor beneath her.

At first she thought it was the milk – she’d always been clumsy, and feared that she’d just spilt it all down the side of the bowl.

But then came the pain. And this time, it was harder.

Much, much harder.

“Okay,” Margot muttered to herself. “Okay, okay, okay…”

_Don’t panic_, she repeated, over and over. Like a mantra. This was it. The starting gun, as it were. The moment that the stakes were truly upped. She glanced to the door, and then to her frosted flakes, and then back to the door again. Take the frosted flakes? It was in that moment that Margot truly realised the extent of pressure she was under. The panic screaming inside her as she realised, this is it. The time to do something.

Leaving her frosted flakes, she returned to the living room. Back to her grandmother.

Amelia Williams sat in her chair, peering at a book over her rounded glasses. Shorter now than she ever used to be. Red hair turned grey with age – the ginger had taken on a somewhat mythical quality amongst the family, but Margot was too young to remember it. Despite Amelia’s old age, she had always remained a fashionable woman.

Margot was well aware that she was about to shatter the state of contentment that Amelia was enjoying, reading her book. She didn’t feel too guilty – Amelia wasn’t one for sitting down and doing nothing.

“Hey, Grandma? I think I’m giving birth.”

***

“Bloody hell, bugger, bugger, bugger,” her grandmother muttered, as she helped Margot down the first step.

Surprisingly, Margot felt safer than she had done a few minutes ago. There had always been a mysterious quality to Amelia, and a reassuring one too, which Margot was grateful for. Even when Amelia was rewriting the dictionary with her blue language, it was at least taking Margot’s mind off of the impending birth. Yet, they must have made quite a sight – Margot in her… well, state, and her grandmother hobbling on a walking stick, swearing like a trooper.

Grandma always said, you can take the girl out of Scotland, but you can’t take Scotland out of the girl. She’d even kept most of the accent.

“In the car,” Amelia ordered, jamming the key into the door.

Margot stared at her, astonished. For all that the panic had dissipated, it was back now. She wasn’t sure of the last time her grandmother had got behind the wheel of a car, but it can’t have been for many years – and it probably wasn’t at night, nor with the added stress of her granddaughter giving birth in the passenger seat.

“Your mom isn’t here, I don’t have much choice!”

Margot resigned herself, and climbed aboard, while Amelia muttered on about the evils of grocery shopping. Why had she let Cynthia go? This was ridiculous.

Her grandmother leaned into the driver’s seat, negotiating her way in. it was easier for Margot, 8-and-a-qaurter months pregnant, than it was for Amelia.

“Hold my stick,” Amelia pushed it over onto Margot’s lap, balancing it on top of the bump. “Actually, just chuck it in the back.”

She held onto the back of the seat, lowering herself down into it. Thinking that all of her bones could probably fragment at any second. So, when Amelia (finally) sat down, she breathed an immense sigh of relief.

But then her brain was back on the ball. She turned the key in the ignition. Slammed her foot down on the clutch, put the car in gear. Found the bite. One hand on the handbrake, the other on the wheel. Amelia faced the windscreen, gritting her teeth. Determination furrowing her brow, as she prepared for the quest upon which they were about to depart on. A mission, big and important. And very, very special.

Amelia Williams had done a lot of things in her life. She’d journeyed around the whole of time and space. She’d become a beloved author, her books in publication all over the globe. She’d travelled, both across the stars and across the world. 

But, just as had been the case with motherhood, and then grandmotherhood, there was something different about what was before her now. Both terrifying and incredible, all at the same time.

After all. This was the birth of her first great-grandchild.

And Amelia Williams needed to get her granddaughter to the hospital.


	2. CHAPTER 1 - Not at All

**15th JUNE 1987**

Amelia Williams stood alone.

The pathway before her was treelined, with beds of flowers along the roots. On any other day, it would’ve been beautiful; the branches of the trees arched up, their leaves and twigs entwining in the centre above their heads – a pattern, woven over time, matched beneath her feet by the twisting roots, embroiled around each other, bound tightly within the Earth. With the early summer, the sun glowed over the streets of Manhattan, and golden light peeked through the gaps in the leaves above, leaving them radiant.

She heard the birds nesting in those trees, and the insects buzzing, perhaps enraptured in the delight of summer. For a graveyard it was, ironically, full of life.

For Amelia, however, the tree-lined way only seemed dark. Like a tunnel, leading to god-knows-where. She’d known, in the end, that she’d return here. It was the graveyard they’d arrived in, and the graveyard they knew they would leave in. She’d never believed in destiny, and yet, here was Rory’s. And it would be hers, too. Set in stone. Because in 25 years’ time, she and Rory would stand in this graveyard, before being grabbed back in time.

It was strange that the thing bothering Amelia most was that, by 2012, the trees had all been chopped down. The flower beds turned into grass.

The chapel at the back of the cemetery was her destination on that grim day, and she entered. The dread within her, that was already deep-seated, became all the more pronounced when she saw the coffin, on the bier at the front.

And the photograph of her husband, Rory Williams, in his youth.

Seeing that made her realise just how wrong all of this was. Life without Rory wasn’t a thing that could be envisaged. He’d been there, by her side, ever since they were children. Through everything she’d faced.

Amelia could remember, all those years ago, being in that graveyard with Rory taken from her. Faced with the devastation of never seeing him again, she knew exactly what she had to do. There was no debate. There was no conflict. The Doctor might have protested, but anything he said was in vain. He really _was _an idiot if he’d thought for any second that she’d choose her imaginary friend over Rory.

Many years later, though, she’d spoken to River about it, who told her that the reason the Doctor protested, the reason he’d been so devastated, was because he knew that there was no choice, and so he knew what was about to happen.

Together or not at all, she’d said. It had been tested. were times where she thought that setting him free of all the crap she brought to him was better than letting him suffer. But in the end, she knew in her heart.

Without a second of doubt, she took the hand of that Weeping Angel.

Transported to a park, somewhere or other. There was a bench, facing away from her, and the shape of a man.

She knew it was him.

Amelia put her hand on his shoulder, and she said it again.

“Together or not at all.”

He looked up at her. Eyes full of tears and wonder, sadness and happiness. He took her hand, knowing that through it all, they would be together.

Rory Williams was dead. He’d faded away in a hospital bed, and she’d sat, beside him. Refusing to leave. Now, she was alone. The realisation of that was devastating.

_No_, the voice inside her said. _You’re not alone_.

With part of her gone, it was difficult to keep reminding herself of what she had left.

Anthony Williams, her son, walked alongside her. Arm in arm. Despite being adopted, Anthony was an adherent to the Williams family name, and was equal in his determination to honour his father and be there for his mother in this trying time. He was just as extensive in his overinflated sense of self-belief, and he had a reputation for being a difficult and uptight man.

Behind them, his wife, Nancy, followed close. Dressed impeccably, upon arriving in the church, she looked around with an icy glare, determined to make sure that everything was in order. When seeing an old friend of hers and Anthony’s in the congregation, she offered a sickeningly fake smile – but it was an art that Nancy had perfected over the years, and so the recipient of the look believed it to be genuine. Rory had always been a good father-in-law to her, and so his loss was certainly painful. However, more than anything, she was determined that the ceremony should pass without a hitch.

Christopher was Anthony and Nancy’s oldest. 19 years old, ‘studying’ at Yale University. Regularly underestimated, he should have worn a sign reading ‘disappointment to his parents’. Meanwhile, Sarah, at 17, had the trajectory of her life planned exactly, from graduation through to world domination. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. Both were deeply saddened by the loss of their grandfather, and both wanted the public spectacle of a funeral to be over as quickly as possible.

Then, at the back, sat Professor River Song. She nodded at Amelia in recognition, giving her the most reassuring look she could muster, in the hope it would make both of them feel safer. She might as well not have bothered – it did little to reassure Amelia, and it did little to reassure herself. However, Amelia was happy to see that Melody had come home for the funeral. River dropped by often, though this was interspersed with long spells away, travelling through time and space. Amelia would often sit and listen to River’s tales – reminding her of times long ago. Of adventures with the Doctor. 

It was clear to Amelia, however, that there were two individuals missing.

Cynthia and Margot were yet to arrive.

Her adopted daughter and granddaughter were meant to have flown from their home in California. Punctuality had never been Cynthia’s strong suit, but Amelia had hoped, just this once, that she would not be late. However, neither were to be seen.

With every minute that passed, the agitation in the chapel grew, and to say that the family waited patiently would be a lie. Amelia, with her arms folded, was determined. They would not start until Cynthia and Margot were here. They deserved to pay their respects, and Rory would want them here.

The waiting game began. Anthony was getting increasingly irate. His younger sister’s inability to turn up anywhere on time was a source of bemusement and irritation, and he believed it to be brazenly disrespectful. Nancy, meanwhile, darted up to the front of the chapel, to adjust the photograph on the table – it wasn’t quite straight. Sarah and Christopher sat, sensing the palpable tension brimming from their parents.

“Ma –,” Anthony began.

“No,” Amelia interrupted.

Anthony sighed, and retreated.

A minute later (after the priest informed him that he had a wedding to attend to soon), Anthony dared to try again.

“Ma, please. We need to start.”

“We wait for Cynthia and Margot,” she said, defiantly.

Anthony sighed again.

Two minutes later, he decided to give it one last shot.

“Ma, here is the situation. We either have a funeral without Cynthia and Margot, or we _don’t have a funeral_.”

Sensing that his mother was about to cut him off once more and that he would have to, once again, retreat with his tail between his legs, he decided to continue before he fell victim once again.

“Just – give it some thought. What would Dad have wanted?”

“He’d have wanted to be alive,” Amelia snapped. Anthony bit his teeth. _Should’ve seen that coming_. He was trying to be patient, for he couldn’t blame her – losing one’s spouse was an experience that he could not imagine, nor did he want to.

Much to his surprise (and to Amelia’s own surprise), she agreed.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll have the funeral.”

Rory deserved a send-off with at least some of the family. In truth, she didn’t want a send-off at all, and knew deep down that she was trying to find any excuse to delay it. After all – to agree to bury Rory was to agree to accept that he was gone. The last thing that she wanted to do.

Anthony nodded to the priest, who assumed his position at the front of the chapel, struggling to contain his delight. There was a palpable feeling of relief across the chapel, as everyone sat back, and waited for the funeral of Rory Williams to begin.

However, just as the priest was about to embark on his opening statement, the doors at the back were flung open. Two people hurried in, dashing down the central aisle and ducking low, to ensure they didn’t disturb the ceremony. This was, unsurprisingly, completely futile. The priest looked like Krakatoa before eruption, as he stopped his monologue to wait for them to sit.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Cynthia and Margot said to everyone. Cynthia couldn’t believe this had happened to them. She’d gained a reputation for lateness during her hippie phase in the 60s (which, in fairness, she’d never quite grown out of) and knew this would only enforce the perception. It might have been less troublesome to have avoided the service altogether, but this was the fault of the airline and nothing else. She was determined to say goodbye to her father, and for Margot to have the chance to say goodbye to her grandfather.

Margot followed close behind her mother. Looking at the sheer number of people in the chapel. She was doing a good job at hiding how affected she was by everything – after all. She was 13. Carrying the miserable, sulky look was not hard. 

Margot and Cynthia took their seats, and embarrassed, Cynthia offered the priest a friendly smile, and, seething, the man of the cloth began, for the second time, the funeral of Rory Williams.

In the middle of his sermon, Anthony turned to Cynthia.

“What sort of time do you call this?” Anthony hissed. Cynthia rolled his eyes. She should’ve expected this. If Anthony had a dollar for every time he leapt on her case about something, he could make a career out of judging her. Living as an artist in a tiny flat in California as a single mother made her the prime target of cutting remarks from her older brother.

“There was a problem at the airport, they lost my luggage.”

“This is our father’s funeral, and you didn’t make it in time because of the _airport_!”

“You really put the ‘fun’ into ‘funeral’. Calm down.”

“I’m just upset at you disrespecting my father’s memory! And, by the way, what are you wearing?”

She turned to him. Stunned. For all that Anthony knew a lot about being judgemental, he’d never quite stooped so low.

“Sneakers!” he said, spitting the word out like it was giving him an allergic reaction. She glanced down at herself. Shabby black cardigan, floral pashmina that wasn’t appropriate for a funeral but she wore to stop herself looking like a vampire. And, yes, the smartest pair of sneakers she could find. “You’re wearing _sneakers_!”

“They’re black.”

“They. Are. Sneakers. What would Dad say?”

“I could’ve turned up in a bin bag and he wouldn’t care. And, for what it’s worth – _our _father, Anthony.”

There were times when she looked back on her years growing up and wondered how she’d put up with Anthony for so long. She had moved heaven and earth to make this journey to New York in time, to get Margot across the country so that she could pay her respects. This was typical – even when she’d tried, Anthony would find it in him to be difficult.

“As much as you’d like to think it,” Cynthia continued. “You’re not the only one grieving here today. So, with respect, shut up, and –”

They were suddenly shushed by someone in the row behind them. Cynthia muttered an apology, while Anthony stared onwards, stony faced.

There was, throughout all this, something bothering Amelia – and it was not just the fact that her husband was being buried that day. There was something more. An impulse within her, demanding something, calling out.

“Stop,” she said. The priest, caught off guard, did exactly that, and murmurs of confusion spread across the chapel.

“Ma? What is it?” Anthony said.

Amelia found herself walking up to the front of the chapel. In a complete daze, she wasn’t quite certain of what she was doing – there was a voice inside of her, however, and she couldn’t do anything but listen to it, and act on it.

She snatched the photograph of Rory, and politely, spoke to the congregation.

“I need a minute with my husband.”

She was well aware that she looked insane, but in that moment, she didn’t care. All she knew was that she had to get out. Sitting there, feeling alone, doing one of the worst and hardest things she’d ever done, was too much. It had to stop – so, Amelia left the chapel, supporting herself on her walking stick. Everyone else too bemused to act.

The doors slammed behind her.

***

Amelia propped up the photograph of Rory against the outside walls. Watching him looking up at her – a motionless, glazed look. Exactly what one would expect from an inanimate object. Amelia returned the look, and in her confusion and lostness regarding the day’s proceedings, it appeared just as glazed. She noticed her knuckles whitening as she gripped her walking stick tight, trying to suppress the fear rising within her, constricting her throat – it took her back to the days of panic attacks, the likes of which she hadn’t experienced for a long time.

“When we stood on that rooftop being chased by the Statue of Liberty,” she said, taking deep breaths, pacing. “I said to you, together or not at all.”

The photograph continued to stare at her blankly. Obviously.

“Then, when you got zapped back in time, and I followed, I said to you again. Together, or not at all.”

Her breath was steadying, but still subject to a slight tremor.

“Well, right now, if we can’t be together? Then, not at all is sounding pretty good.”

The last few weeks, she’d been trying to distract herself. To be strong for the whole family; after all, Rory wasn’t just a husband. He was a father and a grandfather too. She busied herself with planning the funeral, she’d sorted out all of the books in the office _and _she’d done all the jobs in the garden that Rory used to enjoy. Anything to take her mind away from the fact Rory was gone – anything to stop her admitting it.

But, as the funeral had gone on, she’d realised. She couldn’t avoid it anymore.

“When we arrived here with _nothing_, no home, no money. When we knew the war was coming and what it would do to people that we knew. When we had to sit there, listening to people talk about Kennedy as if he would change the world, or – or when Anthony got enlisted for Vietnam and we knew what he’d go through. It was terrible, Rory, but – but we coped. We had each other.”

She knew what he’d say to her. _You never needed me. You’re strong enough yourself_. She’d always admired the level of faith he placed in her. The strength he believed that she had. After all – Amelia never felt it herself. The fact he believed it, however, made it feel like it could be true. Nevertheless – nothing could make it easy to believe. Not anymore.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “There’s no guidebook on losing your Rory Williams so – so I am lost. And I’m expected to be the grieving widow and be strong for everyone and – and I don’t know how to do those things.”

The photo sat there. Doing nothing. Making Amelia angry.

“For god’s sake,” she snapped. “Just say something!”

She could only bring herself to look at it through the corner of her eye. Catching sight of her face, reflected in the glass. Aged. Lined. Her red hair, turned grey as the years had passed. And right beside of that reflection was Rory, captured in his youth – the way she remembered him from years ago.

But that’s all he was now. A memory. 

To think that they’d grown old together. Been through so much together. Time and space, and then life in America. Parenthood, grandparenthood. But in the end, all they became, were memories.

God, she was glad nobody was walking past.

“Look at me. Yelling at a photo. The last thing I want to be is the mad old bat who falls apart when someone dies.”

Amelia knew that it was time to go back inside.

Her family were in that chapel, and now, she wanted to be with them.

“I’ll cope,” she said. Deciding to be honest with herself. For years, the idea of Rory’s death was unthinkable. But, it had happened, and there she stood. Far from the person she once was, but she was still _there_. Alive. She knew, in her heart, that it would be alright. Amelia had come through worse, and as much as it was difficult to believe, she knew that Rory was right. There was a strength to her that she couldn’t admit.

“But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Amelia picked up the photograph, seeing the summer light dancing in Rory’s monochrome features. She held it close, feeling her heart beating against it.

“Even when you’re gone, I can’t give you any peace.”

She returned to her seat. Returned Rory to the front of the chapel.

With that, the service continued.

It was, like this, that the funeral of Rory Williams passed for his family. Amelia, faced with the prospect of a life without her husband. Tensions between Anthony and Cynthia, siblings divided, constantly flaring up. Nancy, determined to achieve perfection, and to appear perfect. Christopher and Sarah, all too aware of the ways and attitudes of their parents. Margot, quiet. Too quiet, and lost. River Song, flitting between the universe and a life on Earth.

Their lives would revert to normal. Amelia returned home. River returned to time and space. Anthony and Nancy, with Christopher and Sarah, returned to their family home in Hartford, while Cynthia and Margot returned to the west coast. To the unassuming eye, it would appear that nothing had changed.

Yet, despite the appearance of normality, it was anything but.

This was a family, united in terrible circumstances on that summer afternoon. As such, the bonds of grief they shared could only be temporary. There was, amongst those people, division, resentment, disappointment. Sadness and judgements.

Those things waited, ready to be unmasked.


	3. CHAPTER 2 - THE HOUSE OF AMELIA AND RORY WILLIAMS

**6th JUNE 1991**

Amelia and Rory built their own house.

Nearly, at least.

They raised Anthony and Cynthia in the city and had spent many happy (and many less happy) years living there. When Anthony returned from Vietnam and left for Connecticut, Amelia and Rory had decided. It was time to move on.

So, in ’72, they sold their Brooklyn flat, and bought a dilapidated farmhouse. Still in New York state, but away from the urban – and it was certainly a project. The whole thing needed re-plastering, the roof needed to be fixed in several instances, the garden was a wasteland. The plumbing sounded asthmatic and the electricity turned the property into a greater fire hazard than Pompeii the night the volcano exploded.

But, after a few months, the house was habitable. After a few years, the house was perfect. They designed the property around their personal wishes, and to their surprise, did much of the work themselves. With both Anthony and Cynthia having gone their separate ways, they found that they had rather a lot of free time; as it happened, tiling, grouting, and putting up wallpaper, could be good respite from the professions of writing and medicine. Beyond the roofers, the bricklayers brought in to extend the sitting room and the study, and the plumbers and electricians to stop the house from killing them as they slept, much of the work was done by Amelia and Rory.

As such, Amelia and Rory built their own house.

Even with Rory gone, and being at the age of 86, Amelia would not move. Anthony wanted her to sell up and buy a granny flat in Hartford, but it wasn’t happening. This was her home. Her life. She had no plans on leaving it behind.

That property stood up before her now. A combination of stone brick and planks in a duck-egg blue. Sliding doors opening out onto the patio, and a good-sized garden. Fenced, looking out onto the fields beyond – on a summer evening she could spend many an hour, sat on the patio, looking out at the landscape beyond, as a blazing orange sky passed over, and the buildings of the nearby town became visible on the horizon.

So, she occupied herself with reading. She still wrote, though hadn’t published for a while. Often she gardened. Rory had taken it up as a hobby when they first moved in, though Amelia showed little interest. When he died, however, she felt an obligation to continue his handiwork. The garden felt like roots, a legacy, that he’d left behind, and she wanted that legacy to continue. As such, on that summer afternoon, she was kneeling on the ground, gently patting the soil around the flowers she’d planted.

It was a docile life. With both her children and grandchildren grown up, there was little in the way of chaos for her to deal with. Everything seemed quieter, and slower.

That could often make the grief harder to deal with. When there was no noise to distract her, what was there to do apart from confront the thing, always on her mind?

Days like today were always the worst, being the anniversary. Like scars that she might try to pull her sleeves over, they were etched deep and on some days, impossible to avoid. Always there to be confronted. Which was, admittedly, part of the reason she’d invited the whole family over to visit the grave and to have a get-together. It would create noise. Make it harder to stop.

And it would put other people in the house.

Upon arriving in America, they had been homeless. Stayed wherever they could find a bed. But, when they finally found a permanent address during the war, they’d set up home. Adopted Anthony. Finally started to settle down. Then came a bigger flat, and they adopted Cynthia too. Raising a family in the 50s and 60s. It was then that Amelia started to write, her books growing in popularity throughout the ensuing decades. Things settled down. Life made sense.

Before it was all thrown into upset again. In the late ‘60s, Anthony met Nancy, before being taken away to Vietnam. Cynthia ran off to California. Amelia and Rory moved to the farmhouse, and they built. They built, and they built – a house where the grandchildren would eventually come to stay, and the house in which Amelia and Rory would truly grow old together. 

This home was the culmination of it all. Of the ups and downs, the good and the bad.

It didn’t feel right when it was just her, alone, walking its halls.

Amelia sat back and admired the plants. Rory wasn’t there so she’d have to do so on his behalf. Strange to think that, at 86 years of age, she was still in situations where she had no idea what to do.

Then, she stood up. Inspected the old oak at the end of the garden. Sturdy, like an old sentinel, it had been there when they moved in. Standing for hundreds of years and it would stand for hundreds more, it knew the Williams family well. It had seen the highs and lows. Its roots ran deep, its branches reached wide. It was a part of that house and a part of that family. There as time ticked wearily by.

Amelia was interrupted as the phone rang. Times like this, she missed mobile phones – especially in her old age. She was against the clock, desperate to hobble to the house before the caller gave up. Apart from that, however, she was grateful for a distraction – whatever it might be.

Through the patio doors, into the living room. She picked up the handset.

“Hello?”

“Mom!”

It was Cynthia.

“Mom, I just needed to ask you –”

Amelia didn’t hear the rest of what Cynthia had to say. She was distracted by the sudden sound of skidding, coming from the driveway.

Well. She’d wished for a distraction. She’d wished for something to take her mind off Rory.

“Mom? Are – are you there?”

***

Amelia put the phone down. Before going outside, she wanted to check the situation first, so peered through the kitchen window. There was a car, parked horrendously, on the driveway, smoke billowing out of the bonnet. She decided to inspect more closely, and upon stepping out the front door, saw the tyre marks burned onto the gravel, and could smell the faint odour of burning rubber. 

The occupant of the vehicle wasn’t visible because of the smoke – but then the door was flung open. Coming off its hinges, falling onto the gravel. The car was clearly a death trap.

Then, Amelia saw a foot, stepping onto the gravel, adorned in a brown, leather boot. Another foot followed, and then a hand, placed on top of the roof of the car. The driver scooped herself out, dusting off her leather jacket and brushing down her tee-shirt, before stepping free from the cage of death she’d been trapped within.

Margot stood before her.

“Hey, Grandma.”

***

Amelia couldn’t help but feel horrified as to why her 17 year-old granddaughter was driving such a vehicle, and confused as to where the hell she’d got the car.

Margot suddenly broke down into a fit of coughing. She’d tried to style out jacknifing the car but inhaling the fumes had had rather the opposite effect. Probably _not _good, considering the reason she’d arrived early to her grandmother’s house.

“What the hell are you doing?” Amelia said, storming over, pointing at the clapped-out vehicle corpse with her stick.

Margot was not yet able to talk, as she continued to cough up the acrid gases in her lungs. Eventually, however, she returned from her bent-double position, and faced her grandmother. Preparing herself for a rant the likes of which had not been seen on Earth.

“Have you quite finished?” Amelia said.

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“You’ll get sympathy when you explain what _that _is.”

“It’s a car.”

Amelia responded with a steely glare.

“I hired it,” she relented, after a while.

“From where? A scrap yard?”

“From some guy in a baseball cap at the airport.”

Margot stood beside the wreck, running a hand through her hair. Desperate was the right word, like she’d been running and had now reached a dead end. Ruined – like the car beside her.

Amelia watched her – both sceptical and sad. The phone call that she had received prior to her granddaughter’s arrival was, in fact, enquiring after her whereabouts. Cynthia and Margot hadn’t been due to fly until the following day, but after an ‘argument’ (the details of which Cynthia had been particularly vague on), Margot had vanished. Not come home the night before.

“Your mom’s been on the phone. She’s worried sick.”

Margot reacted to the news with great alarm. “Please,” she said, hastily. “Don’t phone back, not yet. I need – I need to talk to you.”

Without a second of hesitation, Amelia smiled.

“You’d best come in.”

***

The house was exactly how Margot remembered it.

She’d not visited since her grandfather died – there had been other things on her mind. But the hallway with its antique table and vase of flowers. The family photographs lining the walls, the hideous maroon carpet that her grandmother hated but hadn’t got around to changing. Even the smell was identical.

But despite it being physically identical, there was something not right. A quality of loneliness and emptiness to the place. She hated to think of her grandmother, all by herself, in this place.

Walking down the hall, she peeked into the old study – creaking wooden floorboards, and bookshelves reaching high to the ceiling, crammed full of books and scattered with eclectic ornaments and photo frames. Patterned wallpaper and crimson curtains, and an old leather sofa in front of the window, fading under the sunlight that creeped in from behind.

Then, of course, the old writing table, upon which stood a rusted old typewriter. Whenever Margot had heard it in use, it made more noise than a train rattling down tracks, though Amelia swore that she would never replace it. She said that writing on it felt rawer. Realer.

Margot wasn’t sure she understood – other than assignments for school, she’d never written a thing in her life. But, it was through that typewriter that her grandmother had breathed life into stories that changed lives.

Amelia Williams, the little old lady from Scotland, whose books had been successful across the globe. Fairytales and adventure stories captivating children and adults alike, taking their readers to another place. The best kind of escapism. 

And Margot had always felt so lucky, being her granddaughter. When she was a kid, and she came to stay, she’d lie in bed and her grandmother would take her hand and tell her bedtime stories.

But these were different. 

Stories that Amelia told as if they’d truly happened to her. Stories of time and space. Stories that gave her good dreams at night and made her feel safe.

She could’ve done with some of those dreams.

Margot stepped into the kitchen, Amelia following close behind.

“Coffee?”

Margot shook her head. She couldn’t drink anything now. She had to get down to it. Had to say the thing that was bothering her so much.

Her grandmother took a seat, and Margot took one opposite.

“Okay,” Margot began.

Not sure how to put it into words.

“I’m… pregnant.”

***

“How?!” Amelia spluttered. Pouring coffee but starting to think she’d need something stronger.

“Grandma!”

“No, no,” Amelia clarified. “Not – not like that, I mean – you’re – you’re 17, Margot.”

“Huh? I didn’t know.”

Amelia couldn’t blame her for the sarcasm. The Williams family reflex, in times of crisis. Upon this, an awkward silence followed, as Amelia didn’t have a clue what to say. Her teenage granddaughter was pregnant.

_My teenage granddaughter is pregnant_.

“You’re speechless,” Margot observed. “Great. That’s a first. Glad to know I’m that much of a disappointment.”

For all the confusion buzzing around in Amelia’s head, there was one thing that she knew for certain.

“You’re many things,” Amelia said. “But _never_ a disappointment.”

Margot sat, sulking. Hands placed over her abdomen – a tiny clump of cells inside, the potential to become a human life. Amelia saw the fear in Margot’s eyes, the sadness as well. This was a girl faced with something daunting that wasn’t easy for anyone – let alone anyone so young.

It was a secret to nobody that the last few years hadn’t been the easiest for Margot – she had struggled, growing up, recognising the weight of the world and having it bear down on her shoulders for the first time. Despite this, however, Amelia had never seen Margot like this before. Because along with the fear and the sadness, the driving force in everything Margot was, in that moment, was despair. Not having a clue what the future was going to be, not knowing who she was or what she wanted.

“How long?” Amelia asked.

“About a month.”

Amelia nodded, trying to take in the information.

“Mom knows?”

Margot nodded, grimly. “That’s why I’m here. We argued about it when I told her.”

This was, to Amelia, a great surprise. Cynthia was the last person in the world to be judgemental towards anybody – especially her own daughter.

“She…went on, about wanting more for me.”

“Okay,” Amelia said, noticing that as time passed, Margot was only getting all the more upset. “Let’s not worry about Mom for now. She’s coming over soon for the anniversary.”

The colour drained from Margot’s face when she realised that in the next few days, the whole family would be descending upon that house. It was one of those things that had slipped to the back of her mind with everything else that had been going on – like a lot of things. Everything that Margot knew, everything that underpinned her existence, all became irrelevant, as her brain became dominated with one thing.

“I can’t not worry, though,” Margot said. “Because it’s not just her. I’ll have a kid at 17. What the hell am I gonna do with my life?”

Amelia had listened to what Margot said, and framed her next question very carefully.

“So… do you want to go ahead with it?”

Margot thought for a moment, fiddling with her hands, feeling that the question she was about to answer was enormous – the outcome of which would change her life.

While it might have seemed like to her, and to Amelia, that she was confused, deep down, Margot knew what she wanted. It might not be the outcome that everyone would want but this was her decision – and she would stand by it.

“I do,” she said. Feeling like a weight was being lifted off her shoulders – it was the first time that she’d openly admitted that to herself. “I’m still anxious about what it’ll mean, and –”

“Look,” Amelia said. “If you want this baby, I’ll fight your corner. If people say things, if they judge – I’m here. Your mom, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now, will be here.”

Margot wished that she could be as optimistic as her grandmother. For all that she was grateful for her support, Margot couldn’t forget about the fact that what was ahead of her would, at times, be challenging. Would, at times, lead to judgement.

“It’s not that easy, though.”

There were times when Amelia would catch herself saying something, or thinking something, and realised that she’d sound too much of an idealist. While she had lived in 20th century America for most of her life and knew it like the back of her hand, it would never change the fact that she knew another world too – another time, another life. Often, she would hope for things that, in the time she lived in, were impossible. None of it would stop her trying to better her family’s life – but she would be lying if she said she could always understand their struggles.

“Doesn’t change the fact I’ll be around.”

“Thanks,” Margot said. Sighing. Rubbing her eyes. “Look – can I stay, for now?”

“As long as you want. There’s always a place for you here.”

“Thanks, Grandma.”

***

The evening was strange for Amelia. She hadn’t ‘lived’ with anyone since Rory died. The family had come to stay before, but only for a specific occasion or event. This was different; her and Margot were going about life as if it were completely normal. They didn’t talk about the pregnancy, they just existed, as they did every day, like nothing was unusual.

She made some coffee, then a few hours later cooked some dinner (though her culinary skills were poor to say the least). They ate together, before Margot went to have a shower. During this time, Amelia sat and read. It was perfectly monotonous. Perfectly boring. They watched television for a while, and after that, Margot went to get some sleep.

With this, Amelia retired to her study. She had already contacted Cynthia to tell her of Margot’s whereabouts, with Cynthia seeming hysterical at the time. This in itself worried Amelia, and so she attempted to contact her again, hoping that she’d have calmed down. This was to no avail.

Amelia told herself not to worry. _Cynthia will be fine. It won’t be like before_.

Then, she proceeded to sort through some paperwork that needed to be dealt with. Nothing exciting, something to do with the publication of a special edition of _Summer Falls_. Once upon a time, she had an agent to help with such things, but now she attempted to do as much of it as she could herself. There was an abundance of time, and she needed something to fill it with. 

Exhaustion began to sink in after half an hour, so she decided to get some rest. Putting down her pen, Amelia glanced over at the photograph of her and Rory, on the bookshelf. Funny – it had stood there for so many years, and most days, her eyes just wandered over it, due to it becoming part of the background, a permanent fixture in the scene. But today – with the anniversary, and with Margot’s unexpected arrival, something about it caught her eye. Made her stop.

The photograph was of the two of them, on V.E day. They were living in New York at the time, and there was an atmosphere of jubilation and melancholy, both at the same time – unlike anything Amelia had experienced before, or since. The war had been tough, and Rory was lucky enough to avoid the fighting. But, having retrained as a doctor by this time, he had seen some of the injuries sustained. Treated people whose lives would never be the same again, or who, as a result of their wounds, would eventually die.

Nobody had escaped the scars of that war. From their arrival, Amelia and Rory had to come to terms with everything that would occur. Terrible things that they _knew _were going to happen, and that they were unable to do anything about. Gone were the days of time travel. They were no longer passers-by – they were part of the story itself.

But they’d got through it, side by side.

“Shut up,” she pointed at the photograph. “I’m still annoyed at you.”

A smile crept onto her face, as she knew he’d have smiled too. Four years on. How out of her depth she’d felt. Like the summer the Silence took Melody, or the autumn when she and Rory had arrived in 1939. The uncertainty. The confusion.

She’d made it, though.

“You were right,” she admitted. “Of course I was okay, in the end.”

Amelia sighed, sitting back in her chair. It seemed like whatever happened, time had been out to get her. First with the Doctor – going for five minutes only to be gone for years. Then, she and Rory, being taken from their time, away from everything and everyone they knew and loved.

Then, of course, there was Melody.

Time seemed like a malevolent being. Their daughter was taken, and for all that Amelia might have already witnessed her growing up, and for all that she got to be her best friend, nothing could change the fact that she would never be able to raise Melody as her daughter.

River Song often stopped to visit – the first time, it hadn’t been long after they’d arrived in America, much to Amelia’s delight and relief. To know that her relationship with her daughter wouldn’t be lost to time forever was a wonderful thing. With that, River became a presence in the life of the family that Amelia and Rory built – for Anthony and Cynthia, and then Christopher, Sarah, and Margot. 

It brought Amelia great contentment to know that she would not be entirely deprived of the chance to be a mother to River. But no matter what happened, Amelia could never stop feeling sad about the days she missed.

Much to Amelia’s dismay, however, it seemed that things had reverted to how they used to be. There had been no word from River Song since Rory’s funeral.

This wasn’t unusual, at first. With River’s chaotic life, there were often long periods of absence – but in the end, she would always return home.

Not this time. Four years had passed, and whenever Amelia walked past the photographs of River, a deep fear would run within her. She was terrified that River was gone, lost to time like everyone else they knew. She was scared that, the fate of her daughter would always be unknown to her, and that once again, Amelia would be left to wait.

Perhaps River would fade to be nothing more than a memory, a story from the past. Amelia couldn’t stand that thought.

So, she wished that her daughter would come home.

Amelia’s relationship with time had always been convoluted and had often caused her pain. It was ironic, then, that one of the things to devastate her was so cruelly simple.

Age. Death.

Amelia and Rory Williams grew old together, and that brought huge sadness with it.

Everything ends.

Despite it all, she had found peace, when looking back on her life. Genuine contentment, as she got to adopt and raise Anthony and Cynthia and be there to see her grandchildren grow up. Christmases with the whole family, River too. Holidays and trips and boring Sunday afternoons. The warped march of time became a backing track against something far more important.

Amelia glanced around her, at the walls of the study. The bookshelves, the wallpaper, the desk. This room, like much of the house, had been built by her and Rory.

“This is it, Rory. The life we built.”

She smiled. Sad. Wistful. Things could not be perfect, but things could be okay. 

Amelia looked up at the photograph, and said to herself –

“You’d love this.”

The life she was living now.

***

Margot sat up in bed, looking at the room around her. It was familiar – a room she’d stayed in countless times, frequented when she was a kid. As such, the walls, the décor, was identical to how it had been years ago. The window looking onto the garden below, the shadowed outline of the old oak tree against the backdrop of the fields behind – it resurrected memories in the most powerful way, transporting Margot back to her childhood in the blink of an eye.

It was never exactly the same. When she was small, she’d lie near the edge of the bed, and her grandmother would sit on the floor beside her. Taking her by the hand. She’d lean close, and tell Margot stories.

Stories about her.

Everyone knew that Amelia Williams was an author. The publication of _Summer Falls _in 1954 had been a sleeper hit, followed by 1957’s less successful _The Charington Post_. A few other moderately popular titles followed, and then the arrival of 1966’s _Night Thief of Ill-Harbour _had turned her career into something much more. Through all this, her work became beloved by children and adults alike.

Margot had read the books several times. She personally believed 1976’s _Demons Run _to be an underrated masterpiece. Yet, far more significant to Margot were the tales imparted directly by her grandmother, the bedtime stories, or the little narratives detailed over dinner or in the garden one afternoon. These weren’t stories about other people, or invented protagonists.

These were stories that her grandmother said she had truly lived.

Stories about an ancient wizard called the Doctor, flying around the universe in a magical box. Saving whole worlds from villainy, featuring demons like the Daleks and the Silence, and the malevolent witch Madame Kovarian. There were heroes like her grandfather himself, dressed as a Roman soldier. The bravest man that Amelia knew. There were spaceships and asteroids, and stars. Galaxies and galaxies of stars.

The stories were magical, transporting Margot to a whole universe. And when she was a kid, she liked to wish that, up in the sky, the Doctor was drifting by, protecting the world below.

Of course, Margot wasn’t alone in hearing these stories. Her cousins had too, along with her mother and uncle. Like all of them, she’d grown up, understanding that her grandmother was simply a masterful storyteller. That these adventures hadn’t truly happened – they were simply fiction.

But, many in the family couldn’t stop noticing that there was something mysterious about Amelia Williams. Something otherworldly, giving the stories a pull of credulity. Amelia, of course, was disparaging to such suspicions.

The Williams family, however, liked to believe, in their darkest moments.

Margot was the same. The stories gave her hope, and that night, as she lay in bed, in the confines of her grandparents’ house, things started to feel okay.

She leaned over to switch off the lamp and get some rest, and as she did so, she caught sight of the old oak tree in a gap between the curtains. Its shadow could easily be mistaken as ominous, but to her, it was a sight of familiarity and reassurance.

As she flicked the switch, Margot’s hand brushed, against the wall of her grandparents’ house. The walls that reached up around her. The walls that, within, Margot Williams felt safe.


	4. Chapter 3 - The Exhumation of Zachary Taylor

The following morning arrived. There were a few blissful moments, upon Margot waking up, where she enjoyed not remembering. She relished in the escapism of those moments – until she remembered that she was pregnant and that the whole of her extended family would be descending upon that house at some point today.

Oh well. It had been nice while it lasted.

Margot knew, however, that there were things that needed to be confronted. It could hardly be said that she was excited to face her mother, after the argument that they had the other day. But it had to be done; without that, there was no way that they could move on. 

“Good morning!” her grandmother said, as Margot stumbled downstairs, still half-asleep. She checked the clock – half-past ten. She’d been dead to the world for hours, and it was no surprise. The journey had been exhausting the emotional strain of arguing with her mother had taken it out of her.

_The argument_.

More than anything, Margot wanted to move on. The last thing she wanted to do was argue with her mother. They were so close, and for something like this to come between them was disheartening. Margot was nervous about seeing her again, about having to confront all the things they’d said to each other. But at the same time, she wanted them to be on good terms again – they needed to make amends.

“Fancy something to eat?” Amelia asked.

“Err…” Margot, still feeling rather dozy, was too distracted by thinking about what she was going to say to Cynthia upon her arrival.

“I’ve got cereal – oh, do you want some bacon?”

“Oh my god.” Margot was pulled from her pseudo-slumber in seconds flat, the prospect of bacon delighting her. “I would _love _some bacon.”

“Coming up. Eggs too?”

“Yes please.”

Amelia couldn’t help but enjoy herself – of course she wanted Margot and Cynthia to be reunited as soon as possible, but she couldn’t avoid the fact that it was nice having someone else around. Nice having someone to spend time with, to enjoy the boring trivialities of life with.

Of course, none of this changed the fact that Amelia was terrible at cooking and Margot was in for quite a shock.

While Amelia busied herself in the kitchen, Margot poured coffee from the cafetière. She took a big, long sip, realising that _a lot _of caffeine was going to be needed to get herself through the day – before realising, to her dismay, that she would have to limit her intake with the baby. _Great_. Especially if the whole family were going to find out she was pregnant.

Margot resolved not to think about that now, instead sitting back, listening to the radio chatting away.

“_The space shuttle Columbia is now in orbit. After launching two days ago…”_

After a time, Amelia returned with a plate laden with bacon and eggs. “Thanks, Grandma,” she said, tucking in. The bacon had nearly been vaporised but the eggs were not too bad, and Margot was so famished she could’ve eaten anything.

“_Meanwhile, scientists are preparing to exhume the body of 12th president, Zachary Taylor –_”

“They’re what??” Amelia spluttered, nearly choking on her morning coffee.

“Yeah,” Margot said, mouth full of bacon. “They think he was poisoned.”

“So they’re digging him up?”

“Apparently,” Margot said.

“Hmm. Just so long as they leave my Rory alone…”

“Grandma!” Margot protested. Amelia smiled to herself, thinking how Rory would’ve found it funny.

“Let me be morbid. I’m Scottish. And at least he wasn’t poisoned with arsenic, even if the night shifts did drive me mad.”

Margot didn’t know what to say, so they sat in silence for a while, listening to the story of the untimely death of Zachary Taylor.

“How are you feeling?” Amelia asked. Worried for her granddaughter, more than anything.

“Good,” Margot lied, trying to obscure the slight manipulation of the truth by chewing through some egg white (yes – Amelia’s cooking was such that the egg required chewing).

“Really?”

“No,” Margot admitted. “But, I’ve got to speak to her. To clear the air.”

“Exactly. Sometimes you’ve got to dig up Zachary Taylor.”

“Yep.”

“Though, I will be upset if they dig me up again, thinking someone put anthrax in my yoghurt…”

Amelia returned to pottering around the kitchen, tidying a few things up. Checking in the cupboards to make sure that all the food supplies obtained for their family gathering were present and correct. There was lots to do in preparation. Making sure the beds were made for the visitors, lining the walls with Kevlar or bulletproof glass in case of arguments (which often occurred). So, Amelia embarked on her lengthy list of things to do.

Margot ate her breakfast (topped up with some toast, made by her own hands), Amelia’s clattering fading into obscure background noise.

Except, after a while, the clattering stop. Margot looked up, to see Amelia staring out of the window. 

And then the doorbell rang.

The doorbell rang again.

The doorbell rang a third time.

Amelia and Margot shared a look of solidarity. It was time.

When Amelia returned, Cynthia Williams stood beside her – looking exhausted. And who could blame her? Her temperament was naturally inclined towards melancholy and anxiety, and so the disappearance of her daughter with no correspondence only served to put her on edge.

It had been a few months since Amelia had last seen her daughter, but she remained the same. Flowing skirts, floral cardigans stained with droplets of paint, silk scarves draped around her neck. 

Margot gave her a sheepish look, her mouth full of bacon.

“You’re eating bacon that my mother cooked?” Cynthia looked at the plate incredulously. “Do you have a death wish?”

“I take it you don’t want any, then…” Amelia pushed the plate she was about to offer Cynthia out of sight, thinking that it would make things worse.

“No, Mom. I don’t want any bacon. I want to know why the hell my daughter decided to disappear, without telling me or leaving any kind of a note, to get on a plane and travel right across the country.”

Normally, Cynthia was good at maintaining a calm, chilled-out exterior, if only for Margot. There was always that anxiety brimming underneath, but now? The façade was gone.

Margot had tried to think of a decent response, but there weren’t any. “Okay! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

When Margot said it, it _did _sound like a lacklustre apology.

“I think that ship’s left the harbour,” Cynthia said. “Or, should I say, plane’s left the runway. You have _no idea _how worried I was.”

Margot swallowed the bacon (it was very burned) and stared at her.

“_Worried_? Mom, I did the math, it took you nearly a day before you called Grandma. I mean, way to make me feel loved.”

Cynthia was at a loss – not sure what the right thing to say was. “I wanted – I just wanted to trust you! And – and I didn’t want everyone thinking that I was such a bad mother that I would lose my own daughter.”

The room fell into silence. Margot sulking, not knowing what to say. Amelia hovering, ready to step in if need be. Cynthia, unable to look her daughter in the eye.

“How could you think I didn’t care?” Cynthia said, eventually. Looking devastated.

“Because – you were angry. You were disappointed.”

“You can’t expect me not to be shocked.”

“Mom – you were crying. That just made me feel like my life is worth _nothing _now –”

“Hold on a second –”

“But above all, it made me feel judged.”

Cynthia had to find a chair. She sat down, and rubbed her eyes, feeling a headache taking over. Her voice quietened, now. Anger leaving her.

“I was never judging you. You know me, kid, I’m the last person who could ever judge you. And – above all, you’re my daughter. So, don’t you dare accuse me of judging you when I would never do anything but stand beside you.”

“Then a bit of support when I told you I was pregnant would’ve been nice.”

“I’m sorry,” Cynthia admitted. “But I’m a human being. I can’t get it right straight away. I know my reaction wasn’t what you wanted, but – I was never judging you. And I wish, _wish _you could see that.”

Amelia watched on grimly. Seeing her daughter and granddaughter shouting at each other was the worst thing, and she hated every second of it. The animosity, the hostility.

Margot ate another mouthful of bacon, just to have something to do instead of sitting there, sulking.

“Sorry,” she said, after a while. She could see how upset her mother was. Both of them had said all that needed to be said.

“I’m sorry too,” Cynthia said, trying to hold herself together. In truth, she wanted to cry, but tried desperately to hold herself together. “I wasn’t judging you, I was just – sad.”

“Sad?” Margot said, confused.

“Because you were gonna be better than me.”

Cynthia leaned up against the door, weeping quietly.

“You were gonna do the things I never did, because you’re so much cleverer than me. You were gonna to college, you were gonna _be _something.”

“What if that’s not what I want?” Margot spoke quietly, devastated by how gutted her mother sounded.

“And being pregnant is?”

“I don’t know! I – I don’t know.”

Cynthia had to take a moment, to gather herself. She didn’t want to let her daughter down and was determined to make this right.

“I don’t mind, Margot, if college isn’t what you want. I – I thought it was, that’s all. If you want to be a mom, if you want to go to college, if you want to leave home and join a bluegrass band, I don’t mind. I want you to be _you_, and to live life on your terms. I’ll always try and make sure of that.”

“Mom –”

“I promise,” Cynthia said, bringing herself to look Margot in the eye. “I’ll babysit, Margot jr. can even mix my pains, whatever – so long as you’re happy –”

“Mom,” Margot interrupted again. Smiling. “We’re good. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And – don’t put yourself down. You are something.”

Margot hated seeing her mother put herself down. She couldn’t have wished for a better parent – for all that their argument upset her, it couldn’t be denied that Cynthia Williams always fought her corner. Always defended her. For as long as Margot could remember it had been the two of them, against the world.

They made their peace at last. Things were not necessarily perfect, but they were ready to be built. There were some things, it seemed, that could not be left to fester. That had to be uncovered, so that they could be fixed. Margot realised that this was one of them.

***

Cynthia needed some quiet, so took herself out into the garden. There was an old bench, near the oak tree, and it was there that she chose to try and clear her head.

It didn’t help that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept, with the worry over Margot and then the journey, meaning everything seemed amplified by exhaustion. But beyond that, Cynthia couldn’t help but feel there was so much going on. Doubts and fears, all swirling around inside her head. Over the years, she’d got much better at handling them, at stopping them getting the better of her. She’d come a long way, since she was young, since she first moved out of home and over to California.

That didn’t mean the doubts disappeared for good. She couldn’t stop worrying that she’d let Margot down. Had she been a useless mother? That fear had haunted her more than any other, like a ghost, ever since Margot was born. Especially in the months after Margot was born, where Cynthia had ruthlessly interrogated herself constantly – was she up to the task?

She had tried, so hard. Singlehandedly raising Margot in their tiny flat, trying to get her commissions finished to a standard that she’d actually be paid. All her clothes were stained with paint, that stuck in the carpet as well. Embedded deep, like scars. There were times when she’d sacrificed everything, even food, to ensure that her daughter would be okay. Amelia and Rory would always try and support her – financially, and by having Margot to stay. But none of that changed how much Cynthia wanted to be a good parent. It turned out that there was nothing worse than working so desperately for something, only to worry that you would never be able to achieve it. That it was nothing more than a ludicrous pipedream.

“I wanted to check you were okay,” Amelia approached. “But, if you want to be on your own, just shout.”

“It’s fine,” Cynthia said, trying to make it look like she hadn’t been crying.

“You’re a good mother,” Amelia insisted.

“Let’s face it. I have failed, Mom.”

“No, _no_, you haven’t.”

“I went mad for the first few months of her life, for god’s sake, and it’s been downhill since.”

“You weren’t well at the time.”

“She’d a good kid, and the last few years, she’s been unhappy! She’s been so down, she doesn’t know what she wants from life, but she’s _tried_. And – is that what I’ve done? Have I raised my girl to be like I was? And now, she’s ended up pregnant.”

Amelia sat beside her daughter, put an arm around her, and pulled her close.

“Nobody should be judged a failure for _any _of those things.”

Cynthia couldn’t be convinced otherwise. The voice in her head had grown so loud, it was impossible to shut off.

“It’s in black and white. I went to therapy, I got myself together, and I kept doing the thing I loved as a job. I wanted to prove I could be a good mom. But I couldn’t. I had to accept your cash, because it was all I could do, to give my little girl the life she deserved. I… couldn’t make it work, no matter what I did.”

Amelia bit her lip, trying not to get upset as she listened to Cynthia talk so negatively about herself.

“You weren’t a failure for accepting our money. You weren’t a failure for needing our help looking after Margot. You gave everything you could to that girl. I won’t sit here, and listen to you call yourself a bad mother, when you have been anything but.”

Cynthia took a deep breath, feeling it tremble. Tried to listen to her mother’s words, tried to remind herself that she _could _do it. When doing this, she looked to the end of the garden – a quick reconnaissance, to ensure that Margot wasn’t there. Even if she was basically a grown-up who was about to become a mother, Cynthia never wanted her daughter not to feel safe.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I’m only telling you the truth.”

Amelia squeezed Cynthia’s hand. Just as Cynthia was determined to make Margot feel safe, Amelia was exactly the same.

Unfortunately, this mother and daughter moment was interrupted, when they heard voices inside the house.

Anthony had arrived.

“You take a moment,” Amelia said, grimly. “I’ll go and see him.”

It must be made clear that Amelia did not harbour ill will towards her son. There were many times when she had been critical of things he’d done, many times when she believed he had made mistakes. But, in the last four years, he had been very good to her. Always making sure she was okay, and that the house was in top condition. She couldn’t have asked for a more loyal son. That was partly why she was dreading the impending conversation. It would, as always, lead to a top-to-bottom survey of the property and all the work that Anthony would do to keep it in order – before he once again declared his wishes that she should move into a granny flat in Hartford. 

It was with gritted teeth, then, that Amelia made her way indoors.

Cynthia was glad that she had this moment, alone. She always needed to prepare herself, whenever Anthony arrived on the scene. She normally liked to prepare with something alcoholic, but as there was nothing to hand, the scenic surroundings of her parents’ garden would have to do. She sat back, watching the sunlight running through the foliage on the old oak, making patterns on the grass. She felt her breath steady, and she felt herself calm down.

She’d gone over it all with her therapist a hundred times – how things had ended up the way they had. Leaving for California at 18, pregnant at 25 by her idiot of an ex-boyfriend, who then made himself _very _scarce at the news of Margot’s conception. The depression kicking in after Margot’s birth. When Margot had to stay with Amelia and Rory at times in her early years and then, when Cynthia had been determined to be a good mother, without relying on other people. Time and time again, she had gone through it all, to work out why she felt the way she had.

Through it, she had worked to improve. Cynthia Williams, fighting tooth and nail to make herself well. Even if things were far from always perfect, she had found a way to a better place.

It was, in that spirit, that Cynthia wished to continue.

_Well_, she decided. _Time to go and see him_.

Forcing a smile, Cynthia walked back down the garden, to the sliding doors.

“Hey!” she said, trying to sound upbeat, and failing miserably.

Anthony stood, dressed immaculately in a shirt and tie, his jacket over one arm, greeting their mother and Margot. Nancy had drifted quickly to the kitchen, with a hefty ceramic basin of something – a pressure cooker, by the looks of it, probably some perfect casserole. Christopher hovered awkwardly towards the rear of the pack. For all that he was 23 years of age and working an office job, he had the disposition of a moody adolescent when in such close proximity to his parents.

“Cynthia!” Anthony said, kissing her on the cheek. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” she lied. “You’re well?”

“Always, always,” he nodded, placing his jacket on the back of a chair. “Been promoted at work. Sarah’s stopping by later, she’s on an internship at the moment with Carlton Ruckforker.”

“Carlton… what now?”

“Carlton Ruckforker,” Anthony repeated, knowing full-well that Cynthia had heard the first time. “He’s an attorney down in the city, and runs an internship for aspiring lawyers. He’s an exceptional man, is Carlton. And Sarah is an exceptional young woman…”

Anthony continued to prattle on, while Cynthia zoned out. They had always been very different people with very different lives, and that was being upheld. The five year age gap hadn’t helped. Anthony was married, two kids on the straight and narrow, with a nice suburban house and a well-paid job. And Cynthia was… Cynthia. Begrudgingly, she zoned back in. Made herself listen, not thinking it impossible that Anthony could sadistically quiz her on the workings of his seemingly perfect family.

“And, you and Margot? You’re all good?”

“Yeah,” Cynthia lied, noticing Margot flinch at the question and deciding to keep it brief. “We’re great.”

“Fantastic!” he said, deciding that was enough small talk with his younger sister. “Now, Ma,” he meandered out onto the patio. “Do you want me to replace these slabs? They look like they’re falling apart…”

Nancy bustled in from the kitchen, dusting herself off. “Cynthia!” she said. “How nice to see you! How are you?”

Nancy was much less of a failure than Cynthia, and always seemed smiling, warm, and friendly. She was the perfect wife. Cynthia suspected that it was all an act; no matter how hard she tried, she’d never been able to make sense of her sister-in-law. She cared ferociously about standards being kept high and about tradition being maintained but was similarly determined in ensuring the happiness of Anthony, Christopher and Sarah. The result was a fake exterior with a heart buried deep within it.

“Oh, hold on a minute,” Nancy turned, to where Christopher was scanning through the newspaper on the kitchen table. “Christopher! Go and check the pressure cooker. Otherwise, we’ll end up eating late.”

Knowing better than to argue, Christopher, obligingly, disappeared into the kitchen.

“I brought a casserole,” Nancy said. “It’s always nice when Amelia doesn’t have to cook.”

_Because we all know it’s terrible_.

Cynthia nodded.

“Yep… always nice.”

***

As expected, Anthony’s survey of the house was rigorous, as he examined the whole place, top to bottom, to make sure that it was in perfect condition. Amelia watched him like he was deranged, as he paced the kitchen running through a list scribbled on a small notepad.

“Bulbs,” he turned to her. “When did you last change the bulbs?”

She shrugged.

After some deliberation, he came to the conclusion that it was better to be safe than sorry. “I’ll put bulbs on the list.”

There was no stopping him – Anthony was on a mission.

“What about the oven? Does it need cleaning? I know a great guy, Ma, he’ll do a discount for you. Oh – by the looks of it, the sink needs doing to. Grease and all sorts can get down there…”

When writing this on his pad, his pencil snapped. Amelia was on hand to pass him another, which he received gratefully, before running down the list.

“So, that’s the paving slabs need relaying, the laurel hedges need trimming, you need a new tile in the bathroom upstairs. As for the ‘maybes’, reinforcing that bookshelf, buying new bulbs, the oven, the sink –”

“Anthony –” Amelia tried to interrupt him.

“And this?” he said, placing his hand on a cupboard to illustrate its flimsiness. “Ma, this unit seems to have a few screws loose –”

“As do you, Anthony.”

For the first time, he was caught off guard, as he realised what an idiot he looked.

“You don’t need to worry,” she reassured him. For all that she was grateful of everything Anthony tried to do, there was no need. She didn’t need him to always be there.

“I’m not gonna stop worrying,” he admitted.

“I know. But give it a go, just for a bit.”

“I want you to be okay.”

“I know. I will be.”

Their eyes met, and Amelia noted the worry he was feeling. He wanted her to be okay, he didn’t want her to end up like Dad. She knew he’d found it tough losing one parent, and that the thought of losing another was unbearable.

“I am gonna get you that oven cleaner, though. As I said, he’s a great guy, he’ll do it discounted.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad. It is a bit grim at the moment.”

He returned his pencil and put his notepad in his pocket.

“Anything I can do, Ma. Just ask.”

“I will.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You won’t, though.”

They both knew it – Amelia had no plans on stopping, and she had never been great at standing up and asking people for help.

“I promise,” she said, placing both hands on his shoulders, and realising how tall he was. She’d used to do this when he was a kid – kneel down and place her arms on his shoulders, and even on the ground, she was taller. How times had changed; now she had to stand on her toes just to reach up to him. At the same time, no matter how many years passed, sometimes she’d blink and be surprised her little boy wasn’t still there, looking up at her. “I’m just – not an invalid. Not yet.”

Anthony leaned down, and kissed her on the top of her head. She beamed to herself

There he was, all grown up.

***

The casserole was, as expected, delicious. The conversation, however, was stilted.

“And I said to them – I said, look, Bob! Just because you’ve got the _trust fund_, doesn’t mean the insurance comes cheaper!”

Anthony found his own anecdote hysterically funny, while Nancy forced a chuckle. Amelia nodded and ate her casserole. Christopher rolled his eyes, having heard the story a million times before. Margot looked at Cynthia, wondering if she were missing something obvious. Cynthia looked at Margot, wondering the same thing.

When Amelia and Rory bought the house and built the extension, they opened up the property so it was open plan. A dining area was positioned between the living room and the kitchen, and they ate, in silence, at the lengthy table.

“You are all remarkable conversationalists tonight,” Anthony made no attempt to hide his passive aggression.

“Sorry,” Cynthia muttered. “We’re exhausted. Travelled a long way to get here.”

It wasn’t a lie, at least.

“How was the journey?” Nancy enquired, not interested but trying to make conversation.

Cynthia and Margot weren’t sure how to field the question.

“Er… yeah. Flight was good,” Cynthia tried a response that was deliberately vague.

Nancy nodded politely, then returned to her casserole.

“Much nicer than airplane food,” Cynthia gestured to her casserole.

“Thank you,” Nancy said.

Little did the rest of the family know that, during this performance of a meal, Amelia was sat at the head of the table, feeling increasingly deflated with each passing remark. To think that it had all come down to this – highly strung relationships, tension palpable in the air. She’d invited them here not only to take her mind off the anniversary, but also so that they could remember her late husband. Their late father and grandfather. Perhaps she shouldn’t have bothered, as it was doing little to alleviate any of their moods.

She couldn’t stop thinking about how upset Rory would be, that they had fallen apart like this. What a way to commemorate the anniversary of his death.

“If nobody else is going to say anything,” Anthony said. “Christopher has some news. Christopher?”

All were pleased at the opportunity for a conversation that wouldn’t create even more tensions – all, apart from Christopher, who hadn’t anticipated his own announcement. “Dad,” he hissed. “Not now.”

“Nonsense! There’s no better time, son.”

Christopher was about to protest, but 24 long years as Anthony Williams’ son had taught him it would be futile. His father’s wishes about anything concerning his son’s life usually came true. He resigned himself, then, to making this announcement.

“I’m getting married.”

Cynthia choked on a piece of chicken. Margot did too, albeit less subtly. Amelia had grown accustomed to disguising shock at revelations like this, and with calm and poise, continued to eat her casserole, despite a swathe of questions waiting to be asked (such as, _whatthehellareyouthinking_).

“To who?!” Margot coughed, as she recovered.

“_Stephanie_,” Anthony spoke proudly as if he was the one getting married. Christopher sat awkwardly, wishing he was somewhere else. However, it had to be said, hearing such pride associated with his own actions was unusual. Normally, Anthony reserved such things for Sarah, while he continued existing under the shadow of his father’s disappointment. However, since graduating college and putting on a suit every morning and getting a job, his father’s view of him seemed to have turned. Christopher was, apparently, finally living up to his potential, and the news of the impending nuptials had only furthered this. It was a surprise, however, that despite his father’s pride, Christopher felt little in the way of satisfaction.

The name put forward was of no meaning to Amelia, who sat, waiting for Anthony to elaborate.

“You remember, Ma? Mine and Nancy’s anniversary party back in April.”

“I remember,” Amelia said.

More silence followed, but after a while, Amelia spoke.

“How long have you been seeing Stephanie, then?”

“About a year,” Christopher answered, after some prompting from his father. Amelia was sceptical but decided to bite her tongue.

Cynthia, meanwhile, was unable to hide how astounded she was. “Marriage, huh.” He was only 23! How was he ready to get married? “Good luck to you, kid.”

Anthony glared at her. “Cynthia – there’s no need to be bitter. Just because he’ll have a stable job and will be married.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

_Alright_. She had been thinking it. Bitter wasn’t the right word, more so feeling the extent of her failure even more. She’d never even been married to Margot’s dad before he disappeared off to god-knows-where. She’d never had a stable job, or a stable relationship – meanwhile, Christopher was more a college student who accidentally wondered into an office block in his dad’s cloths. However, Cynthia decided to keep herself to herself, and keep eating her casserole.

“I think,” Amelia leapt in, sensing tension. Cynthia was thankful for it. “Congratulations are in order.”

Cynthia and Margot glanced at each other, feeling like their problems weren’t actually _that _bad.

“If it’s what Christopher wants,” Amelia continued. “Then we should be happy for him.”

Anyone in the room would’ve noticed the slight flicker of doubt across Christopher’s face when his grandmother spoke. The brief flinching, a momentary realisation, that Christopher was unable to hide – before he took hold of it, and buried it again, so that none of his family would see.

Amelia raised her glass of wine. She was going to need it.

“To Christopher… and Stephanie.”

Anthony joined in with a proud, “To Christopher and Stephanie!” Nancy concurred, while Cynthia and Margot gloomily acknowledged the toast.

“Will I get to meet her?” Amelia asked.

“Of course, Gran,” Christopher said.

“If I can’t,” Amelia continued. “Then not to worry. It’ll be like Blind Date, but with a wedding. For both of us.”

For the second time in one meal, Cynthia and Margot choked on their casseroles. Christopher glowered at his plate, while Anthony stared at his mother, disappointed. She professed her innocence in a single look, before returning to her food.

The meal continued in silence.

However, everyone was stewing away. The pressure was building amongst all the participants of that meal – everyone had something to say, everyone had something they were trying not to say. Words went unspoken, with jibes and judgements hidden, carried out in little glances, the truth unable to manifest. 

Anthony snapped first.

“There is definitely something up!” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but all of you – yes, Ma, even you – are in a strange mood. And I don’t know what the hell it is, but I’m –”

His rant was interrupted by a sound like a bolt of lightning striking. For all Anthony’s anger, he hadn’t yet transcended to unlocking the powers of Zeus, and he stopped, baffled by the interruption. For once, the whole family was unified in something – their confusion, as they sat bolt upright, nervous as to whether the origin of the noise became clear.

Half a minute passed with no revelation, prompting Anthony to scoot off his chair, and prowl into the kitchen. The used the window to assess the situation.

They knew it was serious when he responded with an,

“Oh my God…”

All were on tenterhooks to find out what was behind the mystery. When Anthony returned, he said,

“You all need to come. All of you.”

***

The family gathered out on the front step, like a welcoming party.

Anthony had seen a person, stood on the driveway, emerging from a cloud of billowing smoke. He recognised her straight away.

As the woman approached, he wasn’t alone. Everyone knew exactly who the visitor was.

“Hello everyone,” the woman said. She needed no introduction.

Professor River Song.

She was an enigma to the whole family, but a presence in all of their lives. For as long as all of them could remember, River had been there. Never stopping or staying, but she would drop by to visit. An older sister to Anthony and Cynthia, and aunt to Margot, Christopher, and Sarah.

Nobody could make sense of her – she was otherworldly. River looked just the same as she had done 20, even 40, years ago. Cynthia once asked Anthony, five years her senior, if he could remember her looking any different, but he merely shrugged. Bar a few lines on her face every now and then, River Song didn’t seem to age.

This time, there were a few more lines. Nobody would notice, though. River Song was glamourous, and Anthony and Cynthia especially had grown up in awe of her older sister. Whenever she dropped out of the sky, it was like she dropped right into the family. River was a part of it, close to them all, despite how strange and unearthly she might have seemed.

Bizarrely, they knew little about River’s life, about her past. She was an archaeologist who travelled frequently – though both River and Amelia were vague on exact details.

None of this seemed to matter on that June afternoon of 1991.

River had disappeared. None of them had seen, nor heard from her, since the day of Rory’s funeral. But here she was, as if a day hadn’t passed by.

The family were stunned. How should they talk to someone who just abandoned them during an impossibly difficult four years? It was, at least, a welcome distraction from the tense atmosphere of the dinner table, that had come along in the most unexpected way.

Nevertheless, the arrival of River Song couldn’t alleviate the tensions brewing between the Williams family. If anything, it only created new ones. All those feelings that existed, they weren’t simply forgotten about with her arrival. They were not confronted either. They were pushed aside, buried out of sight – something that gave them fuel to grow.

Because of this, the pressures on the Williams family remained, as stark as ever before.

All had been getting too much for Amelia. The arrival of her daughter, however, gave her something knew to worry about.

“River?”

The Williams family parted, as Amelia walked in between them, standing at the head of the pack.

“Hello, Mother.”

Her hands reached out, taking River’s.

“You… you came home?”


	5. Chapter 4 - Into the Sarlacc Pit

“Stupid, stupid girl,” Amelia muttered.

The small building attached to the side of the house had been converted to a nice little washroom; washing machine, old wicker washing baskets piled up by the side door, and an oak table in the middle. An old rocking chair that didn’t have any place in the rest of the house sat in the corner, and a door led into an airing cupboard. 

Amelia leaned back against the washing machine and sighed in disbelief.

“Stupid girl,” she repeated, once more, and this time to River’s face. Her eldest daughter stood awkwardly beside the door as if she was ready to make a quick exit in the event that her mother, in her anger, made a decision to smother her with a pillowcase. 

“How dare you,” Amelia said. “How dare you just turn up like this?”

“Mummy – you did phone –”

“I don’t care!”

“You said it was the anniversary of father’s death and –”

“No. Stop it, just, stop it.” 

“Okay.” 

Amelia stared at her. River was good at disguising how she truly felt. Hell, she was good at hiding who she really was. The timelines of every relationship that River had ever had were completely screwed up and so she’d had to learn. That was all well and good, but it drove Amelia insane. Whenever she wanted to understand her daughter, it made the job ten times as hard. 

Nevertheless, Amelia herself had got good. Over all these years putting up with River’s elusiveness, Amelia could, most of the time, see through it.

And right now?

She saw a sense of guilt. 

“You look old,” Amelia snapped.

“Dare I say it, you don’t look so young yourself.”

“A few grey hairs…”

River smirked, and Amelia couldn’t hide a smile. Gone were the days of ginger. 

“But I mean, you look older. Than normal.”

River looked desperately for something to say that could change the subject. Amelia, meanwhile, stared at her, taken aback by the fact that, truly, she looked older than she had been. Hardly anyone else would know, but Amelia recognised the few lines, the wrinkles. Wherever River Song had been, she’d been gone a long time. 

“Well,” River said, at last. “For all that the time vortex ages me gracefully… there are limits.”

“Hmm,” Amelia nodded. Surprised by her… well, surprise. River was always River, the one thing in her life that never changed, dropping out of the sky. The fact River was different meant things had changed. Were changing. And it wasn’t just the lines either. The way in which River carried herself, the way she spoke, she was wiser, she had, to put it simply, lived. 

“Look – I’m sorry that I wasn’t around.”

“Where’ve you been?” Amelia ignored her. Desperate to understand why.

“Oh, same old, same old.”

Amelia almost laughed, her teeth gritted. Maybe anger, maybe fury, was running through her. She wasn’t sure.

“Well. I’m glad that nothing changed for you. I’m glad that you could just… get on, with your life, as if nothing had happened. And – actually, what does that even mean? Same old, same old?”

“Time. Space.”

_Specifically_, Amelia thought. Just a name, just something more concrete that would help her understand _why _River was so willing to disappear at the drop of a hat.

“Him?” Amelia asked.

The elephant in the room, whenever River turned up.

“At times,” River acknowledged.

Amelia had noticed the way River deliberately kept herself to herself where the Doctor was concerned. Maybe River worried about upsetting her – Amelia wasn’t sure, but she wished that River would be a bit more open.

“Please, River, just tell me more. Just tell me something, anything, more.”

“Why does it matter? Every little detail of my life?”

“Because I need to know. There’s – there’s two options, you see. Either you left us for something menial. Trivially drifting through time and space, arbitrarily. Or, there was something else. Something bigger, something more important than your family. And after the last four year? I don’t know which would be harder for me to hear.”

Amelia glanced up to her daughter, who stood, pain etched on her face.

“Professor River Song,” Amelia said, dryly, like the very words hurt. “And you just swagger back into our lives like it’s not been a day, like we should… revere you, like you want to be adored. I love you, Melody, but I won’t stand for this, because it isn’t deserved.”

“Sorry,” River admitted, guilty. “Making an entrance – it wasn’t sensitive.”

“No. No, it wasn’t. Because, _every day_, I have grieved for my husband, for your father, and an anniversary means _nothing _when you weren’t there by my side.”

River nodded. Willing to admit that Amelia was right.

“You have every right to attack me, but… I need you to know, Mother, that I grieved for him too. Every day, just as you have. I might not have been here, and I’m sorry if you don’t think I grieved ‘properly’, but I did what I had to do at the time. Maybe that was selfish, or wrong, I don’t know. But I did what was right for me.”

_Fair play_, Amelia thought. In many ways, just wanting this stupid conversation to be done. She’d been vented enough anger at her daughter and was now simply exhausted. Too tired to fight any more, too tired to find a way of expressing how she felt towards her.

There was, however, one question on her mind.

“If that’s the case,” Amelia said. “I’m not going to ask you to stay. Apart from tonight. Please, stay tonight, then tomorrow, we can go to the grave, together. After that? You can go. It’s… it’s fine.”

Amelia stared at the floor and bit her tongue, not wanting River to see how upset she truly was.

“Yes,” River said.

Amelia nodded. Good. Good, that was good. Things would be okay, she told herself.

“Do you want some casserole?” Amelia asked, much to River’s confusion.

“Er – certainly. Of course. That would be delightful.”

Shuffling off, Amelia tried desperately to reassure herself. Then, saw River, looking just as uncertain herself.

“Just because I’m pissed off,” Amelia said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“Same,” River said, quietly, under her breath.

***

It was nice that Anthony had found something else to rant about, instead of his son’s marriage or Cynthia herself. River’s arrival hadn’t only put the cat amongst the pigeons, then – it had been a blessed relief.

“She’s back…” Anthony said, like he’d just heard his arch-nemesis had been reincarnated after a demise. In many ways, it was sad that they’d reached this point. Anthony had always had a good relationship with River, though her absence had put great strain on it. As the last four years had worn on, Anthony gradually came to resent her, all the more, for all the stress she’d put Amelia under. This return had brought his animosity towards her to a head. After all – he’d been repeating the same thing five times.

“She was always coming back, Anthony.”

“Four years too late.”

“I know…”

Cynthia couldn’t pretend she was overjoyed. She had seen how much River’s absence had changed Amelia, and it had been harrowing to watch.

The whole party had been disbanded, brought to its conclusion by River’s arrival. Christopher and Margot went off together. Nancy went off for a stroll, saying she needed to clear her head after the tense lunchtime conversation. Amelia and River, meanwhile, stayed on the driveway, to ‘chat’…

Amelia rarely brought River up in conversation. For a time after the funeral, she would muse on when her next visit would be. But, after a while, her name gradually fell out of conversation. Perhaps Amelia was beginning to believe that River had gone for good, and that to speak of her was to create too much hope. Anthony never quite grasped this, and occasionally asked about whether there had been any news from River. The way in which Amelia quickly shut down such lines of conversation before leaving the room made it quite clear what her feelings were.

“It makes me so angry,” Anthony seethed. “That she goes for years! Then comes back like no time has passed.”

Cynthia understood. For once they agreed – a miracle. But, she kept her mouth shut. She was too exhausted to discuss this.

“So. Chris, huh?”

She was looking to change the subject, but realised as she did so she was probably kicking a wasps’ nest.

“What about him?” Anthony said, abruptly. Even though he knew exactly what she meant.

“Is he happy?”

Maybe she was speaking Esperanto, because Anthony looked baffled.

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

Cynthia sighed. _So much for avoiding an argument_. “He’s 23!”

“And?”

“23! Anthony, no offence, but 23-year olds are loopy. I mean, what the hell were you doing when you were his age?”

His face darkened, his voice became solemn.

“In Vietnam.”

_Oh god_. _Stupid, idiot_, she thought to herself. Of everything she could’ve said. For all that her brother drove her mad, dragging up some memories was the last thing she’d intended.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she tried desperately to apologise. “That was really, _really _–”

“It’s fine.”

“You –”

“Seriously,” he snapped. “It’s fine.”

It clearly wasn’t. The silences before had been awkward. Now they were unbearable.

“But… he’s 23, Anthony.” Cynthia couldn’t believe she was so desperate to return to their argument.

“Look – why are you judging us?”

“I’m – I’m not –”

“I’m not stupid, Cynthia. You and Margot, and Ma, you were doing a terrible job at hiding what you thought.”

“I’m not trying to be judgemental. Who the hell would I be to judge? I know where Chris has been. I want him to end up happy.”

Cynthia knew what it was like, to become involved in such a close and seemingly permanent relationship at Christopher’s age. She knew the pain it could create, though decided not to mention it. Anthony would bring out the same arguments. _You’re not the same. Christopher is completely different_. Maybe so, but Cynthia was unnerved by his blasé attitude.

“We don’t need you to. I’ve got that covered.”

“Okay…” Cynthia murmured.

“The boy has such potential!” Anthony said, after a while. “He can be everything I never was, Cynthia. Everything and more!”

Anthony appeared desperate more than anything else – a chink emerging in the armour he and those around him and become used to him wearing. He wanted so much for Christopher, and he knew that Christopher could achieve it. That was why it upset him greatly when Christopher sought to shun his responsibilities, when his son was so determined to ignore his advice. It had taken a long time for Anthony and Nancy to be able to settle down – a great many obstacles had stood in their way. Anthony was determined that Christopher should not face such a struggle.

Christopher _was _going to be happy. Anthony would see to that.

“He’ll be brilliant, you watch. He’s got the world at his feet!”

“Right…” Cynthia said. Biting her tongue, knowing that, as she and Anthony disagreed on everything under the sun, they would disagree on this too. She had always looked on the way he pushed his children, dictated their pathways, with slight horror. Once she brought this up and was quickly told to mind her own business. “Look. As I said. We’re ambivalent. We’re Switzerland! We’ve got enough of our own problems to worry about.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Nothing much. Boring, life stuff. Arguments, you know.”

“Ah,” Anthony believed that he _finally _understood why nobody laughed at his hilarious anecdote about Bob Ruskin’s blatant misunderstanding of his home insurance policy. “That’s why everyone was so tense over lunch…”

“Yep,” Cynthia confirmed. “Parenting is hard, sometimes…”

_Really, really difficult_. She’d lost count of the amount of times she’d felt in over her head.

“Oh? What’s happened? Margot joining the _Hell’s Angels_?”

Cynthia found herself laughing, to her bemusement. When was the last time she found anything that Anthony said remotely amusing?

“Or, I don’t know,” he continued. “Joined a… grunge band, or ended up pregnant or something.”

This time, Cynthia did not laugh. Had Anthony been somehow colluding with the forces of hell itself and been granted with telepathic powers? Did he simply have irritatingly good instincts? Had a coincidence of monumentally despicable proportions occurred?

“Sorry,” he said, chuckling to himself. “Not funny.”

The moment of realisation was brazenly clear. He stopped, his eyes widening, looking like he was about to fall over.

“Cynthia…” he said. The word ‘suspicious’ didn’t quite cover it, as the tone in which he spoke naturally made her want to profess the truth. “Why aren’t you laughing?”

“Oh – the thought was just _so _insane that I couldn’t possibly –”

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she? Your – your daughter is pregnant!”

***

Amelia and River were quiet. Neither quite knew what to say to each other, and there was still some tension in the air. But. Amelia couldn’t bring herself to care about any disagreements she might have with her daughter. It had taken many years before Amelia was finally able to be a mother to Melody, and no matter how upset she was, there was no question of resentment. She was overjoyed to have her daughter, back by her side. While there were still things needing to be said, they could wait.

What mattered, to Amelia, on that day more than any other, was everyone being together.

“I hope it’s not too cold,” Amelia dolloped the casserole onto a plate for River. “Vegetables are a bit grim by now, so I’ll spare you the trouble.”

“Thanks,” River received the plate gratefully. She took a quick glance around the kitchen – the first time she’d been there in many years. She caught sight of the photograph of her father hung up on the wall, looking out at them. His presence would always remain in that house, no matter how many years went by. She couldn’t look at him for long – it only served to remind her that he wasn’t there anymore.

River had grown used to everything leaving her behind. She was a time traveller with an extended lifespan – losing people became part and parcel of life. But this was different – a man who she had both grown up with, and who had been her father. There was a closeness between them, as there was with Amelia, that no-one else could explain. They were bound by their upbringing, by their blood, by the bonds of parenthood. She had very few constants in her life, but in some shape or form, her parents had always been there.

Until now.

It made her feel her age even more. Made her realise how weary she was.

“It’s a lovely photo,” Amelia agreed, noticing the way River had been staring at it. River nodded.

“I do miss him, Mother. Whatever you may think.”

Amelia knew she did. There was no question about it.

With that, they hugged. Amelia noticing the way River bristled – the shock of her mother’s slightness, worn by age. How had that happened? As they broke apart, Amelia looked up to her daughter, their hands entwined, and she treasured the moment. Who knew how long River would stay? When she vanished, who knew when they would meet again? Amelia had already lost her husband, and she was determined to hold onto every moment she could with her daughter.

River moved away towards her handbag, and like Mary Poppins with her bigger-on-the-inside bag, she pulled out two bottles of wine. “I came prepared.”

“It’s been one hell of a day,” Amelia said.

“I can tell. What’s happened?”

“Long, long story…”

Before Amelia could embark on the tale, the door was flung open, and Sarah Williams came striding in. Formidable as ever, she was going to run the world one day, and she already had a plan for how she was going to do it. Sarah dumped her purse on the table and shimmied out of her jacket.

“Pour me a glass, Gran. A big one.”

“Sarah!” Amelia pulled her granddaughter in for a hug. “About bloody time.”

Sarah kissed her grandmother. “Now. Gran. How are you?”

“Same old, same old. Old, literally. Nothing changes.”

“And Auntie River! I can’t even remember the last time I saw you,” she kissed River on the cheek.

“_Goodness me_,” River stepped back, scanning Sarah. “Look at you! Since when did you become… so classy and elegant? You take after me…”

Amelia nodded in agreement. Sarah carried herself with remarkable poise. In fact, River’s choice of the word ‘elegant’ was perfect. Sarah had her life in perfect order; her education, her career, the myriad of extra-curriculars she’d undertaken before entering college, the clothes she wore, the way she spoke. _Everything_. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and would work out exactly how to get it.

“How’s the internship?” Amelia asked.

“It’s brilliant. Carlton is an amazing teacher, the perfect person to learn from.

“Internship?” River asked, receiving her wine from Amelia. “For what?”

“I’m hoping to go into law,” Sarah said.

“Ah. I’m afraid I can’t say I’ve always been on the right side of it.”

Amelia scoffed. “You’re on the wrong side more often than the right…”

“Very true,” River raised her glass in tribute to herself.

“Where _is _everyone?” Sarah asked. The house was deserted, everyone seemed to have dispersed. “I thought you’d all be together, being… I don’t know…”

“Like a family?” Amelia offered, pointedly.

“Yeah. Exactly like that.”

Amelia wished they were. This was the anniversary of Rory’s death, and the following day they were due to go and pay tribute to him. The last thing he’d have wanted was for them to be at each other’s throats.

At that moment, Christopher walked in, catching sight of his sister and reverting to ‘annoying sibling’ mode.

“Hey. How’s… what’s his name? Charlton… Chuckbucket?”

Sarah sighed. “Carlton Ruckforker.”

“Yeah. I knew it was something stupid.”

“If you must know, he’s great. I’ve finally reached step 2, and nothing is going to stop me.”

“Step 2?” River interjected. Amelia and Christopher shared a mutual feeling of dismay, knowing the explanation would, as always, make them despair.

“My 7-step plan for success,” Sarah said, launching into an in-depth explanation about the plan, its origins, its final goal. Amelia knew it off by heart – she had seen the flow chart, the bar graph – _everything_.

“What happens when you reach step 7?” River dared to enquire.

“Success! Hopefully. Fingers crossed. I’m kinda banking on it…” Sarah chuckled nervously. “But at least I have a plan. Fail to prepare –”

“_Prepare to fail_,” Christopher droned, his younger sister having drummed the mantra into him.

“See! My stupid big brother has finally learned. Anyway – hold on, what’s going on out there?”

Sarah could’ve sworn she heard a commotion, coming from the garden. When she listened, she was certain that… people were shouting? She snuck through to the lounge, determined not to be noticed, and peered through the patio doors.

“Just your Dad and Cynthia. Being civil towards each other for once! It’s a miracle. I know…”

“_That’s _civil?”

Alarmed, Amelia, River, and Christopher glanced at each other, before dashing to the window.

Every family gathering there was at least one ‘disagreement’ between Anthony and Cynthia, and it had whenever the family met up it was a cause of great anticipation as to what would cause friction between them. The idea of a sweepstake had often been suggested. This time, Amelia, River, Christopher, and Sarah, watched on, sighing to themselves, while Anthony shouted at Cynthia and Cynthia brandished a chair, ready to clobber her brother.

“IT’S NO WONDER,” Anthony roared. “THAT YOU’VE LET THINGS GET SO OUT OF HAND. YOU’RE USELESS.”

“USELESS? WELL, AT LEAST I’M NOT THE ADOLF HITLER OF PARENTHOOD. IT’S NO WONDER CHRIS IS SO DESPERATE TO GET MARRIED! HE PROBABLY WANTS TO GET AWAY FROM HIS FATHER.”

“AT LEAST MY KIDS HAVE A FATHER TO GET AWAY FROM.”

“YEAH? BETTER NO FATHER THAN A LOSER LIKE YOU.”

Amelia couldn’t leave them alone for five minutes. She’d have thought that, given the circumstances of their gathering, they would have found it easy to be nice to each other. _Apparently not_. Bracing herself, and reassured by River, Christopher, and Sarah (all of whom were glad it wasn’t _them _going to broker peace), Amelia slid the doors open.

“OI!” Amelia bellowed, Scottishly. Before a millisecond could pass, Anthony stopped shouting, Cynthia dropped her chair, and they turned to their mother, who proceeded to scold her two children as if they were, literally, children. “I don’t know what it is that’s upset you both, and I don’t care. Grow up! The pair of you.”

“Ma!” Anthony said. “She started it! Because she’s judgemental and projects her own insecurities onto others.”

This did not sit well with Cynthia.

“The only one doing any projecting here is you! Living vicariously through your son because your life is so BORING.”

Amelia had often likened ending Anthony and Cynthia’s arguments to diffusing a bomb. However, unlike bomb-disposal experts, she didn’t have the luxury of working at a distance. She had no choice but to go in.

“Sarah. Make yourself at home.”

“Oh, I have.”

“Wish me luck…”

While everyone was preoccupied with the third world war going on outside, Christopher proceeded to raid his grandmother’s cupboards for snacks and nibbles. Two hefty bowls stood before him on the counter, waiting to be filled.

“Is it just me…” River mused. “Or have those two got worse?”

Sarah believed there were some occasions that hadn’t yet been surpassed. “Christmas in 1985. That was a bad one.”

River grimaced. It certainly was.

“Sarah?” Chris emptied a bag of Pretzels. “You wanna watch _Star Wars_? _Return of the Jedi _is on.”

“On what?”

“On a watermelon. What do you think it’s on? The TV. Grandma’s got cable.”

Sarah leaned over the counter. “Grandma’s got cable. Since when?”

Margot strode in, pinching a bag of salt and vinegar from Christopher’s clutches on her way. “Since always,” she said. “It was the only place I could watch it when I was a kid.”

“Hey,” Sarah turned to her little cousin. “How’s tricks?”

“Exhausting,” Margot opened the packet. She’d been craving crisps all afternoon and fervently tucked in. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, I need an early night.”

“Okay…” Sarah said, concerned, knowing it to be unlike Margot to sleep so early. “Sleep well.”

“D’you know what that’s all about?” Sarah asked Chris.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been paying attention – he was too focused on decanting a whole tube of _Pringles_.

“Idiot…” Sarah said to herself.

“Anyway. Come on,” Chris said. “It’s starting. River – _Star Wars_?”

“Why not!” River said. After all, she wanted to reconnect with her family. Though, she believed she’d seen it all tonight. It had been ridiculous, and at times infuriating.

But at the same time, she knew how happy she was to be home.

***

“Why are you _so _angry?” Cynthia demanded. “It’s literally got _nothing _to do with you.”

“Because of the hypocrisy of it all! You laughed at my son, while your daughter has gotten herself pregnant!”

Cynthia smirked. “You can’t ‘get yourself’ pregnant. Moron.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“I do. You’re blaming Margot because she’s the mother. Hey, if Chris got someone pregnant, you wouldn’t care.”

“Christopher wouldn’t get someone pregnant, because he isn’t a slut!”

Without thinking, Cynthia slapped him. It was a sudden flash of anger, as she couldn’t stand to listen someone so brazenly insult her daughter. Anthony was stunned that Cynthia had gone so far, and for a second, she wondered if it had been a mistake. Nevertheless, it was gloriously satisfying seeing the look of sheer stupefaction plastered across his features, and it made a refreshing change from listening to him insult her daughter.

She didn’t regret it. She’d do it again.

“I don’t care if you call me useless, or a failure,” Cynthia hissed. No longer angry, no longer shouting. This time she was quiet, and all the deadlier. “But if you attack my daughter, I will take no prisoners. You hear me?”

Anthony nodded urgently, though it was more out of guilt than fear. “Sorry. That was… uncalled for.”

They both looked up to see Amelia storming out across the garden. She normally needed a stick, but now she was going like an express train. For both Anthony and Cynthia, it was like a scene straight out of their childhood, during their many childish arguments. Things never changed, though. They would always argue – the conflicts had just grown in scope over the years. From who took whose juice carton to who’s insulting who’s kid.

“I can’t believe you!” Amelia said, despairing. “I am ashamed and _horrified _at both of you. I mean – I –”

Words rarely failed her as they did then. The weight of the occasion was pressing hard upon her and it was made much worse by all the fighting – it was hard enough keeping it together as it was. She had to stop, then, to collect herself.

“Right,” she said, taking a breath. “If you haven’t noticed, we are here because it is the anniversary of your father’s death. The whole family, together, at last. Even River.”

Anthony scoffed, but Amelia shot him a deadly glare.

“I have listened to you argue relentlessly since you were children, and I’ve had enough. Every bloody Christmas and Thanksgiving and _everything_, and I am done. Your children are in there, and they are twice the adults you two are. So, cut it out. Both of you. For me, and above all, for them.”

Cynthia and Anthony stood, sheepishly, each wondering whether to mutter a fake, meaningless apology to the other. Meanwhile, Amelia felt a blessed sense of relief that finally, she might have knocked some sense into them – after all those years, breaking up squabbles and arguments! It had all paid off.

Or, so she thought.

“So… you’re _fine _with the fact your 17-year-old granddaughter is pregnant?” Anthony asked.

Without hesitation, Amelia responded.

“Yes.”

“But… your grandson is getting married, and you don’t approve?”

Anthony wasn’t only disappointed, he was devastated.

“To be fair, Mom,” Cynthia said, dryly. “You’re not gonna let this farce of a wedding go ahead? I mean, Anthony, how many times have you met this ‘Stephanie’? Once? Twice? Is her name even ‘Stephanie’? You work in the insurance business, better check your premiums in case she’s a conwoman.”

Anthony seethed, refusing to grace his sister with a response. Besides – it was his mother he was most upset with.

“Ma? You didn’t even answer my question.”

“Because,” Amelia spoke hastily, wanting to get over this awkward line of questioning. “Margot will do what Margot wants to do, even if she gets it wrong. She’s making _her _decision and I’m content with the fact it’s her choice. I’m worried Christopher is being hasty.”

“Wow,” Anthony said. “_Wow_.”

He was that astonished.

“You don’t trust Christopher’s judgement?” he said. “You- you’d trust a delinquent 17-year-old over an Ivy League college graduate?”

“Here we go,” Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Yale again. Hey, guess where Chris went to college? Is it Yale? I wouldn’t know, it’s not like Anthony ever mentions it.”

“You’re simply jealous that Christopher has been to college and Margot never will.”

“Look!” Amelia interjected. With every turn the conversation took, it was getting all the more infuriating. “I want my grandchildren to be happy. If Chris really wants to get married, I will support him. Okay?”

“You’ve nailed your colours to the mast pretty clearly, Ma.”

“Anthony, please,” she said. Exhausted more than anything. “I don’t want to fight. Not today.”

“No. I’m sorry, but _no_. I’m not going to stand here and listen to everyone insult my son. I will not have it!”

“Hey, Mom, you know why?” Cynthia mocked. “Because he’s a _man_. A man, with an ego bigger than Regan’s and a streak of bitter paranoia not seen since Stalin –”

“You think you’re so clever, Cynthia –”

“That’s it,” Amelia turned away. “I’m done with the pair of you! You’re absolutely –”

***

_Star Wars _was an enlightening film.

River sat with a large bowl of popcorn in her lap, engrossed with what was on the television. It was brazenly inaccurate, and often she would point at something and say, _no, that can’t be right_, much to the bemusement of her niece and nephew. In all honesty, she was doing it to mess with them. Nevertheless, there was something irresistible about seeing a depiction of the future so wildly off kilter.

Right now, Luke Skywalker was being led to the edge of a gangplank, ready to be pushed into a pit of tentacles and teeth. A giant, green, perv of a lizard sat slobbering in some sort of hovering land vessel.

“I’ve been there,” River pointed at the deserts of Tatooine, as Luke Skywalker neared his doom.

Christopher stared in astonishment.

“To Jordan,” River clarified, smirking to herself. “Where they filmed it.”

This satisfied Christopher, who was entirely unaware that River had in fact walked the plank over the real life Sarlacc Pit.

Her nephew and niece. Not a sentence River believed she’d say. To have any family beyond the peculiar relationships she shared with her husband, and her parents, was unfeasible. But it had happened. River Song was at the centre of a family, all around her. For all that River relished hopping through time and space, digging up relics and fighting injustice, all to settle down for afternoon tea in the end, she always forgot how much she enjoyed… _this_.

It reminded her of the old days, when her parents were young and barely knew her, and they travelled on board the TARDIS. River would find a fun day out, and her husband would love it, and her parents would be less convinced. She’d experienced this… feeling, back then. She was experiencing it again now. A mix of belonging and anxiety.

As the ad-break came on, River turned to her niece and nephew, ready to morph fully into the wacky aunt. “I _suppose_ that, as your aunt, I should fulfil all the traditional obligations. Turning up late, making aa dramatic entrance, wine – I’ve ticked those boxes. Should I… press you for information about college? Careers? Life? Boyfriends? Girlfriends?”

“I don’t know…” Sarah blushed, awkwardly trying to dodge the question.

“I’m getting married?” Christopher offered, sounding unenthused at the idea.

“I’ve heard!” River said.

“Everyone was _really_ happy,” Christopher said.

“You can understand why,” Sarah tucked into her bowl of pretzels. “You’ve known her… what? A year? 18 months? Since coming out of college.”

“What’s she like?” River enquired, intrigued, and realising she was doing a spectacular job in the role of ‘nosy aunt’.

“She’s, er…” Christopher realised he was foundering. Of course he loved Stephanie, there was no question about it, and it certainly _wasn’t _that he didn’t know his fiancée well enough to describe her. Such a suggestion would be… ridiculous. “She’s nice,” he said. “Yeah. Nice. Beautiful.”

“She’s clever than you,” Sarah added, unable to believe that his brother was going to marry a woman who he could only describe as ‘nice’. Sarah had regularly pointed out her scepticism towards the impending nuptials; Christopher was too immature to make any responsible decisions, let alone to decide to marry someone. However, whenever she voiced her concerns, they were swiftly shot down by her father, brother, or mother. “Seriously? Is _nice _the best you can come up with?”

“Alright!” Christopher protested. “It’s hard being put on the spot.”

“True,” River admitted. “If I had to describe my relationship with my husband – let’s just say, you’d need a flow chart, some sticky notes, and a degree.”

“You’re married?” Sarah asked. River had been there, on and off, all the time she’d been growing up, but this was brand new to Sarah. Sarah’s ignorance shocked River too – she decided to keep the specifics of her life vague. She was enough of an enigma as it was. Nevertheless, River didn’t realise how little everyone knew.

“I am,” River said, wistful, gazing up to the ceiling. Time and space always made for a difficult marriage – she’d found that a lot, recently.

“What’s he like?”

“Now, there’s a story,” she smiled sadly. “He’s a man punching above his weight for a start.”

Sarah chuckled, while Christopher watched on, intrigued.

“No, No. He’s… well, he’s quite something,” River said, the words painful, dredging up emotions she’d tried hard to forget. Reminding her of what had happened.

Part of her nearly mentioned it, there and then. The big news. She’d been keeping it under wraps, ever since she arrived.

It wasn’t time. Not yet, not on the anniversary of her father’s death.

It would have to wait.

“See, Chris?” Sarah said. “That’s how you talk about someone you want to marry. Not like you’ve just woken up with a hangover.”

“Any more details on the elusive Stephanie?” River enquired.

“She’s nice,” Sarah admitted. “Been shopping with her a couple of times. Had dinner with her once. Hey, that’s only slightly less than you.”

“Shut up.”

Amelia leaned around the door. “River. I need you.”

River sighed. Duty called.

“Have fun,” Sarah smirked, her and Christopher both pitying River for having to involve herself in the ensuing chaos outside. “Good luck!”

“I’ll need it…”

***

When River stepped out into the garden, Anthony had brandished a large stick from the shrubbery and was waving it around as he bellowed at his younger sister.

“Oh, _here we go_,” he said, when River approached. “And _you _are just as bad! Where’ve you been for the last four years, huh?”

River stopped, dumbstruck. Partly because of the stick being waved in her face.

“As good a Gandalf impression as that is, Anthony, I would appreciate it if you could put the stick on the floor.”

Anthony tossed it aside, and stood, waiting for answers.

“I have already explained to my mother why I have not been around, and I would be enormously happy if you could trust me when I say, that we have come to an understanding.”

Nobody said anything. Anthony continued to stare at her like she was an idiot.

“Wow,” he said. “That… that is _terrible_. Seriously! What sort of an excuse is that? You know, River, you are arrogant. You walk around pretending to be so _mysterious_, because you want to be idolised. I’m sick of it. I mean – why don’t you just go? If we can’t rely on you, then you are _nothing _to this family –”

“Oi!” Amelia snapped. Anthony was immediately quiet. The four of them stood, in the garden, in awkward silence. As Anthony started to speak, Amelia put a finger to her lips and, like magic, he shut up. Cynthia wished she had access to such a power. “Now. This is what we are going to do.”

“Ma –”

“No. Button it.”

Anthony did as he was told.

“You are my three children. And we are a family, along with Nancy, Sarah, Christopher, Margot, hopefully Stephanie, and my first great grandchild. None of us are perfect and after the last four years, that’s become all the clearer.”

Grief had changed them, in so many different ways. Exacerbated their faults, their tensions with one another.

“But, the operative word there, was family. We are a pack, we move as one. If losing my husband taught me anything, it’s that we must treasure this, because these days will not be around forever. And how will you feel, when, in 30 years-time, you look back on this, and think, I wish I did it differently?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Amelia looked at her three children, in turn, seeing the cogs ticking over.

“But above all, more than anything else, I don’t have long left.”

“Ma –”

“No, it’s true. Look at me! I’m ancient! Don’t pretend you don’t all think it, it’s why Anthony turns into a handyman whenever he visits. When I go, I don’t want to be leaving behind a family who are at each other’s throats. Because I won’t be here to bang your heads together, you will have no choice but to do it yourselves. And I am scared that you will never speak to each other again. That’s not what I want to leave behind, nor who I raised you to be. And on a more selfish note, when I die, I don’t want the last years of my life to have been under the shadow of you all hating each other.”

All three siblings looked at each other, as if to say, yes. We can make a go of this.

“So, here is what we do. We move on from the past, together. Do I make myself clear?”

There was some hesitation amongst them.

“Yes,” Cynthia said, still staring at the floor.

“Of course,” River said, stunned at Amelia’s outburst.

Anthony was the last to agree. Eventually, he realised he had little choice, and said, “Fine. Okay, fine.”

Amelia stepped back and breathed a sigh of relief. _Thank god for that_.

They were dysfunctional – it was unavoidable. Things had happened, mistakes had been made, that couldn’t simply be remedied. It was, although unspoken, a prevalent thought amongst them all that, they might not manage it. They couldn’t just force themselves to get along with each other. But they were a family, and like all families, they were imperfect. They fought with each other. However, in that moment, they all recognised something within each other – they recognised the bonds that held them together.

It had certainly taken them a long time.


End file.
